


Descent

by serpentknife



Series: Dragonverse [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Dark, Dragons, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, nations as dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentknife/pseuds/serpentknife
Summary: In a society of shape-shifting dragons, America must find his place in the greater world around him. More importantly will be the life-altering events in history that will define him...and cause his eventual descent.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), America/Russia (Hetalia)
Series: Dragonverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985773
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59





	1. The Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Against the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/698572) by Ninjamoogle. 



1608

“Come here, little one. I shall not harm you.”

The small child stared at him; the little thing dressed in a simple linen cotton shift and nothing more. By all appearances, this small entity looked to be the human equivalent of a three-year-old. The child’s sky-blue eyes were fixated on the horned man standing in the field in front of him, the two eternal beings staring at each other across an expanse of dancing grass stalks in the windy winter air. Sun-bleached hair wisped around the small creature’s face, small cheeks puffed in indecision at this approaching, demanding stranger. It made a sniff in the air, red fin-ears flicking in curiosity.

“You are like me,” England said patiently. “I am like you. You have nothing to fear.” The small thing gave a flick of its tongue, tasting the air for scent. England likewise did the same with his own tongue, which had the child’s eyes grow round in surprise.

“See?” Now he crouched lower to the ground to make himself look less threatening, and flicked his own black fin-ears as demonstration. “You are a dragon. Just like me.”

Now there was a comfortable smile on the small youngster’s face, and the little one paced forward, now an arm’s length away from England’s grasp. The older dragon was pleased at his boldness. He extended a welcoming hand, giving a curious appraisal and question:

“Do you have a name?”

The small child shook its head, its curiosity drawing the little body closer and closer to England’s knee. England resisted the urge to snatch the child from the grass, knowing that the little beast was liable to bolt at a moment’s whim.

“Then I shall give you one.” The man sized up the small child, giving a thoughtful tap to his chin. Then clapped his pale hands together in decision, a bright smile on his face at his own cleverness. “You shall be known as Virginia.”

Now there was a scowl. England blinked his green eyes, slitted pupils, akin to a snake’s, locked on the little dragon as he huffed at the disapproval. “Now see here, that is a fine name for a young girl, it being the name of this new colony, perhaps you’ll grow into it when you reach womanhood, but-“

“Boy.” replied the little one, with a small growl.

“So, you can speak! Yes, it’s a girl name, but it can’t be helped, since you are in a dress which means you must be a…” then England paused.

“You are a girl, right?”

“Boy.” insisted the little one.

“Ah.” England flushed, rubbing the top of his wild-hair, missing his black horns by a millimeter. “Well my apologies then. Then… uh….” England tapped his chin with a pointed fingernail, then punched his hands together with his idea, smiling with his fangs. “America. After the continent.”

“Girl name.” said the little dragon obstinately. England vaulted on the ground.

“You are… so stubborn!” he moaned.

Later that evening, England walked through the opened gates of Jamestowne. He could smell the smoke of the cooking fires, and the murmurs of the men about the fort, and from a distance could observe sailors still unloading the last of the supplies from the _Susan Constant_. The patrolling guards gave a polite bow to the horned man, eyes looking in curiosity at the little America, but not commenting. While England looked mostly human, they had a healthy respect and fear of him. With straight black horns, slitted eyes, finned ears, pointed fingernails, and sharp fangs, it at best had only been less than hundred years or so since humankind did not flee in his presence. When he was in true form, doubly so.

_I suppose that’s the progress in this new country_ , he thought to himself, as he entered one of the repurposed wooden structures the English had erected. Thankfully, America looked more human than he did, only his eyes and ears giving any indication he might be something else. Colonies did not show the horns true nations did in their human form.

_What am I to feed him?_ England mused. He had no experience raising small children, let alone a young dragon. With a sigh, he gently lowered America to the ground, and observed the small child wobble, then stand straight on barefoot feet. “What do you like to eat?” he asked.

America tilted his small head. “I do not know.” England’s fin ears flicked in surprise, realizing: _He must have recently hatched. Well. What did I eat when I was young? Uh…_

The nation walked into the storeroom, where he saw a crate packed tightly against some barrels. The older dragon gave a sniff, stomach churning at the very familiar scent. “I think I have… salt pork,” England said, a slight shudder running down his spine. Damnation, he tired of the foodstuff. “I could go fly and catch a deer perhaps, or some fish, if they are plentiful in the river.”

“Salt pork.” Insisted America. England looked down at him in surprise. The small dragon tugged on his pant leg, looking up at him with wide, blue eyes.

“Are you sure?”

The little dragon nodded, and rubbed his head against the older dragon’s leg affectionately. England froze, feeling a strange, new emotion expand from his chest. This little creature, who for all purposes was in an outsider’s home, trusted him. He exhaled, feeling a warmness that caused him to smile down at America.

“Well, if you don’t like it, I shan’t make you eat it.” England said with a hum. He looked to his right hand, and with merely a thought, shaped it into sharp talons. “Stand back,” he warned the boy. With a CRACK! he had raked the box open, revealing the contents inside. America was staring at awe, then looked to his small hands, the only indication of similar strength the tiny points of his own fingernails. “Can I do that too?”

“Certainly!” England said, fishing out a slab of salted pork. He held it out to the small dragon, then frowned. “I suppose I ought to cut it for you, this is a rather large size for your small mou-“

America sprung forward, slamming down on the pork with his upper and lower canine teeth, ripping and pulling the meat from England’s hand. England reared back in surprise, chuckling as he rubbed the back of his head with his hand in bemusement, “I suppose I underestimated feeding a dragon.”

The little boy shook the meat back and forth, and devoured it within seconds. And then, as soon as it was there, it was gone. The little dragon looked up, giving a satisfied nod. “Yummy, Inger-land!”

“England,” the man corrected, rubbing the boy’s blonde locks. “I am glad you enjoyed it.”

The boy frowned at England’s correction, but then gave a fanged smile, leaning into the strokes England provided his head. “Iggy.” The boy chirped.

“Not that,” said England, flatly, gently tugging one of the boy’s red fin ears in reprimand. The boy squeaked. And with that distraction, England quickly scooped him up, gently raising him up to give a gentle toss upwards, as he had seen human fathers do in London. America screeched in delight, as England hugged him. “Again, again!” the young colony cried in happiness. England sighed as the little dragon began to tug on a black ear, giving excited chirps. So much for resting after months at sea.

1624

England stood backwards, admiring his handiwork, “Now you’re a true royal colony, America.”

The little boy scowled. Standing for his nation’s inspection, the young dragon was dressed in a fine, woolen, very itchy and unpleasant suit, as he immediately informed him. England did not hear his complaints, instead speaking over his head how this was the fashion for small children in London, and America was a British colony, and had to represent this in dress.

Sensing the boy was to begin tearing at his clothing, England thought of a distraction. “How would you like to start to learn to fly?”

America’s eyes widened. “Fly?”

England nodded, holding a pointed fingernail up to tap his chin as in thought. “Yes, fly. You ought to get a head start. I am certain our fellow Puritans would like to see their colonial representative.”

The lad’s eyes grew big, “But they’re in Massachusetts!”

England shrugged, as if the distance was not great. “When your wings are strong enough, you’ll get there. Dispense of that outfit, I do not want you tearing it.” America didn’t need to be told twice. The boy disappeared towards the adjacent room, England waiting patiently, and within seconds returned in a simple linen shift.

“You still have that style of dress?” England said, bemused. “You look like a 15th century page, boy.” “What’s that?” America asked, tilting his head in curiosity. England grumbled, “A time we could all forget. But enough about that. Come. Let us go away from here, lest John Rolfe comes skulking about for more advice about tobacco.”

The two made their way into the woods, finding a clearing of trees where they would practice transforming. England slid effortlessly from man to dragon, body lengthening, pulling, increasing, and forming. The great dragon stood astride America, a great black beast with straight pointed horns, large wings, and prolific spikes running down his neck and back. He sat down when finished, awaiting his young charge as his tail flicked on the ground in anticipation. America was not so fortunate in his ability to transform from human to dragon. He huffed, he puffed, but he stayed human.

_You’ve done it before_ , England said in his mind, encouraging.

“It’s hard when you’re watching!” complained the boy. England gave the equivalent of a draconic laugh, and averted his eyes, looking up to the tree-tops to admire several eagles that were nesting. He shifted his black wings to halfway open, anticipating rising up, up into the beautiful Virginia sky, flying alongside his young colony, just like the family of eagles. It was a pleasant thought.

“You’re looking!” whined America.

_I am not_ , England replied, laughter in his voice. _Perhaps it would be better if I…_ He didn’t finish the response. He heard a surprised yelp, a tearing of cloth, and when he looked down, a small red dragon was alongside his great rear leg. The black dragon rose from his seated position to inspect the boy.

He was a scarlet red throughout his body, similar in build to England. Four legs, two wings, back spikes, and a long tail which ended in a half-diamond shape. England’s tail ended in an inverse of the point, more like a heart. America’s horns, while not present in his human form, (unlike the nation England) were visible in his dragon form. They were a matching red, and slighty curved back, the tips pointed outwards. England’s own horns were straight and simple, and excellent for defending against an attacking dragon.

But this was not warfare, and the dragon alongside him was an ally. England looked down, his bright green eyes meeting sky blue. To communicate, they would touch minds: an ability solely held by dragons.

_Now!_ He informed his young charge, _to sustain flight, you must use air currents. When we leap into the air is the hardest part. We must gain enough altitude that we can find those currents. Then, you must establish a rhythm with your wings, much akin to a sailing ship riding a breeze across the Atlantic._

America blinked his eyes.

_Observe_. replied England. He crouched low, spreading his wings out to his sides. With a slight wiggle of his spine, he then leapt upwards, flapping down vigorously. He rose higher, and higher, the trees shaking in the down sweep of his wings. He then found his current, sailing immediately high up. He gave an impressive roar, and looked down, expecting America to be staring in awe.

Instead, the young red was chasing a small rabbit, screeching in glee as he chased the tiny mammal across the clearing. England sighed from above.

_This is…going to take a while._

The flight had not happened that day, but England was not too worried. Practice, and time, would make a flier of America. The boy had interest, but he was still so very young. He decided not to worry about it as they approached the wooden colonial home he had erected in the forests of Virginia. That evening, England served them both a fine helping of deer, corn, and beans, all thanks to the knowledge he had acquired from the local tribes. America chirped in gratitude, and England reached over and ruffled his sunflower blonde hair with his pointed nails. The boy all but squeaked in delight.

Afterwards, England cleared the small table, and gestured for America to follow him into the adjacent room. After lighting the small fireplace, he went over to a rocking chair he had brought over this trip, and settled in, ready to bask in the heat as their kind loved to do. The younger dragon immediately climbed into his lap. When he was comfortable, America tilted his head, like a small dog. England anticipated the question.

“England?”

“Yes, America?”

“Why… why are there no other dragons here?”

“Well there are, America. Not here, exactly. All over the world. There’s your brother to the north, Portugal, India, Africa, Russia…France,” he drawled, on an irritated note.

“I have a brother?” squeaked America. “What’s his name?”

“Canada.”

“Can I meet him?”

“I certainly hope one day you can. However, he is in the care of France. Poor lad.” England rolled his eyes. “Someone will have to liberate him from clutches of the French.”

America tilted his head again, confusion tinging his voice, “Why is France bad?”

_“_ We have fought over the centuries,” England waved a hand out, to imply that he thought little of it, “And we are traditional rivals. As a British colony, he is your enemy.”

“So… is Canada my rival too? But I’ve never met him!”

“You will, you will.” England patted his head. Thinking of France and the nonsense of the last few centuries was giving him a headache. He knew there was some leftover gin he had still stored in the cellar. “America, why don’t you retire to bed?” he suggested, desiring more and more a drink.

“I’m not tired!” the boy said, “Let’s play a game!”

England wanted to groan. The last thing he wanted to do was play any sort of game. What could he do to appease the boy?

“Jackstraws!” America suggested. England all but slapped his hands over his face, wishing he had never taught America to play that horrible game. But then, inspiration struck.

“How about I tell you a story?”

“A story?” America said, “What’s a story?”

“A story is a telling of something that may or may not have happened. We tell stories to pass time, and live adventures that others lived, or make up a world that exists only in our thoughts. There’s knights, pirates, princesses, dragons, wizards…”

“Ooh yes, I want to hear about Knights!” America said excitedly.

“Not dragons?”

“We are dragons, silly England. I want to hear about brave humans!”

“Very well. A story about knights. Well. I suppose the most famous knights were the Knights of the Round Table.” America’s blue eyes widened in glee, and he wriggled in anticipation. “They served under King Arthur, at the court of Camelot.”

“Camelot?”

“A castle… like a fort. Like Jamestowne, but much larger, and made of stone.”

“Ah,” said America, not comprehending. “What about the King? King Arthur? Is he like your King?”

“Sort of,” England said with a shrug, not having much of an opinion of King James.

“Who was his Queen?”

“Guinevere.”

“That’s a pretty name,” commented America. “But enough about them! Who was the bravest Knight?”

“Arguably, Sir Lancelot.” England said, thoughtfully. “He was the bravest of the knights, yet there were other truer, more loyal knights. Sir Galahad, Sir Gawain, Sir Bedivere…”

“Was Sir Lancelot not a true and loyal knight?” America asked, picking up on England’s implication. England mentally cursed himself. “He was loyal, yet he…” _How to explain to a child?_ “But he loved the Queen.”

“Did she love him too?”

_No sense lying_. “Yes.”

“What’s wrong with that?” America said, shrugging his shoulders, “Could she not love them both?”

England wished more and more for his gin, wanting that this conversation would end. “It brought about the fall of Camelot.”

“Well that’s silly. If a castle falls down because three people love each other, then maybe it should stay that way.”

“Oh America,” England sighed, “Only you could say such a thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine England's horns to look like a Hungarian Horntail's (Harry Potter series, English literature) whereas America's to look like Maleficent's (Sleeping Beauty, American Animation). The more you know.
> 
> Much of this work references historical events. By no means is it accurate, or meant to be a true representation of history. This more or less falls under "historical fiction/alternate history." Please consult a true historical source for a more apt description of the events referenced in this fan-fiction.


	2. Nature of the Beast

1753

“England! You have returned!”

“America, in the Lord’s name, do not pull on me so!”

“But I am so glad to see you!” cried the youth, who had his arms wrapped around England’s shoulders, dragging him up into a rather strong embrace. England, never quite used to such physicality from anyone, let out a defeated sigh, tolerating America’s solid hold.

The older Nation observed his surroundings, still gripped by America. The house he had built for the boy over a hundred years ago stood sturdy, and on observation, little had changed- perhaps there was more cluttered in the windows on display, (their kind did enjoy collecting things to hoard-) but for the most part, the Virginia homestead appeared neat. This met England’s quick assessment and approval, and he turned his gaze back to the younger man hugging him tightly.

 _He has gotten considerably taller,_ he mused, the boy now standing at his own eye-level. He decided to use the excuse of embracing America to run his pointed nails against the boy’s longer blonde hair, which was neatly tied back as was fashionable. England heard a squeak of delight as he scratched, the youth bowing his head in enjoyment of the contact. England’s pointed nails ran through the wild hair in a soothing rhythm, reminiscent of when he had done so in the boy’s youth. Had America been a Nation such as himself, he would have horns , and this kind of contact would be…difficult. But as a colony, the boy lacked such.

Not that the lad looked completely human. While America did lack the horns of a true Nation, his ears, like England’s, were fin-like- and America’s were a scarlet color, reminiscent of England’s military uniforms. The boy had been immensely pleased to identify with the Empire’s foot soldiers, so much so that England had crafted toy soldiers for him to enjoy.

Also of note was the boy’s sky-blue eyes. Like England, like the rest of their kind, the pupils were slitted, like a serpent’s. And that came with its own problems. England was glad the boy emerged during the Enlightenment and the accepting nature of the colonists. Not to the Dark Ages, where the older Nation had been repeatedly identified a heretic and a spawn of Satan. England really did not care for those days. It did not help his true form was the color of night.

“Come! I must show you the improvements to the house!” America jerked his head up, giving England a sunny smile, his pointed upper and lower canine teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun. England, warming up to his enthusiasm, was half-dragged into the large sprawling Virginia home.

“I thought you meant to move further north, at least by your last letter I received,” England questioned. “Yet you remain here.”

“I was born here!” America said cheerfully.

“Born?” questioned England, raising an eyebrow. America shrugged at that.

“Well, it’s where you found me. And I have many friends here. Many times, I go and hunt in the mountains in the west. When I am not hunting, I help at the Capitol. Sometimes I fly the Royal Governor’s letters-“

“You WHAT?”

America flinched at his tone, holding up his pointed nails placatingly, “It is only the urgent letters to the other provinces! I wish to be of service! And it is much faster to fly than it is by horse-”

“America, you are not to meant to be… a mail carrier!” sputtered England.

“Do not be cross, England,” America whined, sounding much like the little thing England had found in the wilderness all those years ago, “It gets lonely being the only being such as myself.”

“You have me,” England reminded him, still scowling. America bowed his head.

“Yes, but you never stay.”

England dragged his hand over his face. He could not stay angry at America for long. “This is why leaving the colonies to run themselves was and is a terrible idea…” he muttered. He noticed the boy was staring at his feet. He sighed.

“You mentioned improvements to the house?”

America snapped his head up, sunny disposition returning. “Oh yes, come see!”

America had made many enhancements, and showed him every single one. The boy had revitalized the yard into his own style of farm, where several chickens, two cows, and a stable for a horse had been built, haphazardly, but in working condition. A stack of wood for the fireplace lay near the house, where America proudly demonstrated how he chopped wood with his claws. “I have no need for an axe!” he had declared to England’s amusement.

The two traversed into the chickens’ coop, which America had to stoop due to his height. England received a nice “THWACK!” as his black horns collided into the ceiling.  
  
“Damn!” England groaned, as America profusely apologized, “I have meant to up the ceiling, but-“

“You keep growing taller,” England finished, rubbing his temple as the pain subsided, “It would not make sense to continue until you stop.” America preened a little at that.

“We colonists are very robust!” he crowed. England rolled his eyes at his bragging, commenting, “Pride goeth before the fall.”

“That’s what the Minister said on Sunday.” America acknowledged, “I was sitting next to George, who reminded me to pay attention to the sermon, but I was more interested in-“.

As America prattled on about his attendance at service, England regarded this. This was an anomaly- their kind attending religious services. His presence at Court was always welcomed by the reigning Monarchs, but outside of this, he rarely visited any sort of human gathering or celebration. His horns, to humans, were off-putting, and he would not suffer the whispers of his ties to Lucifer or any of that nonsense. America at least could pass for human, lacking horns, and judging by his long speech, was welcomed by his people.

“England?” America questioned, and England snapped from his thoughts. He gave a fanged smile to America, who returned it easily.

“I am glad for you,” England said without rancor, “You have thrived.”

America nodded eagerly, but then; a tell-tale rumbling greeted England’s sharp ears. “You are already hungry?” England teased. America flushed. England smirked at that.

“Well, perhaps I will make us something. I could use sustenance as well. Hard tack for weeks on end is never a true replacement for a hearty stew. I will make one.” England stalked toward the home, America following close behind. The boy darted forward, and held open the door for his Empire. England gave a dip of his head, pleased at America’s manners.

England did not cook unless it was for America. Having watched over him, he had come to understand that America preferred to eat the food of humans, and so, had fed him this way. England understood this reluctance. Young nations and colonies felt strong ties to their people, and wished to mimic them. For older Nations, as the centuries had passed, they became less human, and more draconic in their attitude and tastes.

 _I wonder when I shall see that in America_ … he mused, stirring the stew. Rabbit, potatoes, and a mix of carrots and radishes. _When will his nature develop?_ _When will he drop from the sky, flaming at enemies…?_

He was not sure if America could flame yet. A trademark move of their kind, the fiery “death from above” could easily decimate a battalion in mere seconds. Yet as the world got larger, army sizes increased, and weaponry advanced, England wondered if in the future, their impact on the battlefield would become obsolete. 

_Was the stew supposed to be smoking black? Well, humans liked stew well done, so certainly, it must be ready now._

America wasn’t talking at the moment, engrossed in a paper England had brought him from London, which was months old. Not that the boy cared. “There’s talk of war with France here as well,” the boy commented, as England brought over the stew to the table. “This paper mentions it.”

“Really?” England raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance, “And why, would you think this way?”

“It is about the Ohio River Valley. It is my territory, for trading and hunting,” rumbled America, eyes flashing as he gestured over the paper, his fingers becoming more claw-like. “The French and their Indian allies do not recognize it such.” A low, inhuman growl escaped America. This was unusual behavior.

England’s eyes narrowed, testily replying, “ _Your_ territory?”

America’s aggressive display wilted. “I mean... it is yours.”

“Hm.” England remarked, observing America closely. The boy had hunched his shoulders, biting his lip. Brushing the slight aside, England placed a bowl of the tar-black stew in front of America. The man gestured over the stew. “Pray, eat, lest it goes cold.”

He needn’t had remarked, for as soon as stepped back, America all but rammed his fork into a large piece of floating meat, tearing viciously with his fangs. England shook his head, unwilling to chastise the boy on his poor table manners. He likewise took a small bit of stew, not enjoying the cooked meat very much. Thankfully, America mostly devoured the stew, which England personally did not mind. The older nation did not need to eat as frequently. Younger dragons, more human, were accustomed to frequent feedings.

“Let us retire to the study?” England questioned when they had finished. America nodded in turn. After removing the dirtied dishes from the table, washing and putting the tableware away for a future use, the two entered in the adjacent room. It was lit by candles, and littered by books, old tomes from bygone eras, and more recent additions from the colonies. This was England’s favorite room in this house he had built, a place where he would have a drink, enjoy warmth by the fireplace, and be accompanied by his beloved America as he would read literary works.

The man poured himself a half glass of rum from where it was stored on the mantlepiece, lit the fireplace, and moved over to the grand chair which dominated the righthand side of the room. It was a grand chair- he had it custom made in London. The plush red of the cushioning was aesthetically pleasing to England. The piece had been made several decades ago, and had held up beautifully: not even America’s knocking into it had worn the resilient wood down.

Speaking of….

America shuffled past him, and lay on the beautiful carpet England had brought his last visit, comfortable in front of the cheery fireplace. From India he had… acquired it. It was lush: depicting scenes of birds and beasts both true and imaginary, and with its hues of greens and blues, it made a striking centerpiece in the room. It made for an excellent display.

England moved his gaze from observing the carpet to observing the boy resting on it. The colony was stretched out fully, closer to the fireplace than what would be comfortable for a human. America’s white cloth shirt was half hiked up, to expose more of his skin to the fireplace’s warmth. The younger was half-asleep, processing the rabbit stew.

England fixated on this reveal of flesh, noticing the lack of scars. Beautiful tan skin. America’s breathing was slowed and relaxed, so England could observe how each breath taughtened developing muscles. Despite their distance in the room, the older man could smell him as well: an alluring scent, which attracted his gaze lower to the boy’s hips. The man trailed his tongue over one of his fangs. _How I would like to touch…_

The man reared back in his chair, sputtering into his rum as his horns whacked into the back of the tall chair. Where had that thought come from?

America cracked a cerulean eye open, “Quite alright, England?”

“N-nothing!” he sputtered. “Do not mind me.”

“Hm.” America remarked, his eyes shutting again. England felt a conflict of emotions then. _Ah,_ a small voice persisted in his head, _but_ _he is a child no longer._

And that came with its own problems. England took a heavy drink of rum, musing this. In the world of dragons, when they reached sexual maturity, they would be driven by nature to mate. While they did not reproduce, this coupling was hypothesized to unite countries…willingly or unwillingly. Younger nations, and colonies would typically be overwhelmed by instinct. England frowned, remembering his own couplings. There had been plenty, and not a single one he had particularly enjoyed. 1066 came to mind, which made his fangs bare in a silent hiss. While humans had morality when it came to such things, it was not so for dragons. But the way it had been done to him then-

“England, tell me a story,” murmured America from the floor, interrupting his musings.

“You are far too old for one of my stories,” England chastised, welcoming the opportunity to distract himself, “Perhaps you ought to tell me a story.”

America rose from the carpet, stretching his lithe body as he remained sitting on the floor. England averted his eyes, lest any other inappropriate thoughts developed. “I like your stories better,” the boy continued, “Especially the ones of King Arthur. Mine are so few.”

England snorted, taking a swig of his rum. “You do know King Arthur slayed a dragon?”

America snorted. “That’s not true. I’m sure he befriended it.”

“Oh America,” England sighed, sensing the story was to begin, “You truly see the best in everyone.”

England stretched in his bed, comfortable in the warmth provided by the heavy blanket in the crisp, fall air. He sighed, willing himself to rise. The Nation would not admit it to anyone, but his best respite came when resting in the various lands of his colonies. America was not the only one, granted, but in his own way, part of his hoard. Dragons did collect things. Colonies were a different type of treasure.

As he made his way down the stairs, blearily blinking tired eyes, he mused the business he would attend to today. Perhaps he would fly over to visit this Royal Governor. Blair was it? Using America as a…. England growled at the thought, becoming more awake with irritation. Perhaps he should pay him a visit. Nothing like a large, angry reptile appearing at your doorstep to send a message.

As he entered the dining room, he was curious to note that America was missing. Granted, the boy did sleep in, but rarely in England’s visits. At least, not in the first few days of his arrival. “America?” he called, expecting a response from upstairs.

Nothing. England had half a mind to climb up and inquire exactly why the boy was sleeping in, but he heard a loud “BAWK!” come from outside, with a following noise of “CKKK!” suggesting the death of one of America’s chickens.

 _I suppose it’s a fox_ , England thought to himself, uncaring. But knowing America’s love of his farm animals, he sighed, resigned to deal with the matter. He supposed he was due to rescue the remaining fowl. England walked to the back door which led out to the farmyard. The door, interestingly… had been left partially open.

England pushed the door, the morning sun temporarily blinding him. “You wretch-“ he started in irritation, grabbing a nearby hoe to dispatch of the-

America stood in the yard, covered in blood. The bird in question was held firmly in his mouth, feathers floating down to the ground. England stared in disbelief as the boy crunched on the chicken’s neck, and then viciously threw it to the ground with his teeth. The remainder of America’s chickens were likewise thrown about, having met similar gruesome deaths. A wild look was upon America’s face, and he stared at England, almost as if in challenge. The boy raised a clawed hand, somewhat beckoning the older Nation.

England began to feel stirrings at this. He dropped the hoe.

“America…” he licked his lips, taking a shaking step forward, “You are …” America did not seem to register his name. He merely let out a hiss as England approached, crouching lower to the ground, defensively. England snarled at this, unwilling to be intimidated by this youth. “You should…” he huffed, feeling his stomach roil. He could not finish the sentence, in the language of humans, as his nose picked up a strong scent from America that overwhelmed his rational thoughts. Sexual readiness. _Morality be damned._

As he approached the boy, his fingers shaping into claws, did, strangely enough, did America briefly snap back into reality.

“E-england…” America began. His face and neck were flushed. “What’s going….my chickens!” he wailed, shaking his head as he registered the blatant scene of death all around them. “Did I do this? What is wrong with me!?”

“Nothing… hah…is wrong, my dear.” England said, his instincts overwhelming his normal propriety. “This is the way of things among our kind.” He finally reached America, and letting off a growl, began to tentatively rub his teeth against the younger dragon’s neck.

America was too shaken to notice these ministrations. “No, I’m not a monster!” he cried.

England dearly wished America would stop talking. He opened his mouth wider, and gently pressed his upper and lower fangs against the boy’s neck in a subtle notice. America’s scent was driving his draconic mind haywire with the desire to mate. When England felt the boy begin to shake more, did he finally pause his ministrations to look up.

America’s eyes were streaming tears. “I’m not ready, I’m not-“

“America, “ England said gently, taking a claw to wipe away a human tear. “My dear America, what is it that you fear?“

“I mustn’t… I mustn’t…” America moaned, “I’m not a beast, I’m-“

“A dragon. A dragon that is ready to rise to mate. America, you are ready. You shall run, and I shall catch you.” England pressed a kiss to his lips, and stood back, as to give America room. A stray human thought popped into brain. “You have done this for me.”

“I have…?” America asked, looking slightly less distraught. Encouraged, England began to shed his overcoat.

“I am your Empire. You are to please me. This pleases me. Does it not for you as well?” England enquired. America gave a slight scowl.

“When you put it… hff.. that way…” America’s draconic instincts were beginning to kick back in. His weeping had slowed, and his skin look reddened in the morning sun. The youth began to roll his shoulders, and England could hear the slight tear of fabric, suggesting America’s back spikes were puncturing the cloth.

“Ah…ah…” America moaned. He brought up his hands, which were covered in red scales, hooked with fierce claws. The boy tore at his shirt, as simultaneously two red half-formed wings erupted out from his back. His owns horns sprouted from his head, red as a Regular’s coat.

England had shed his top, and black scales were covering his body. Accustomed to transforming, his was not nearly as dramatic as America’s, who looked in the throes of agony.

England’s viridian green eyes glowed, as his mouth formed into a snout, his blonde hair flattening into black scales. England fell forward as his body rapidly increased in size. He kept his sights on America the whole while, as his bones crunched, strengthened, and lengthened.

America was rapidly changing. The half-wings were now full wings, and he had expanded in size. No longer was any part of him human, but a rapidly morphing reptile. Amazingly, America had transformed into dragon form quicker than the more experienced England. Perhaps it was due to desire to mate?

_No matter. He can have a head start. I shall catch him._

America hissed, shaking his large head back and forth as an array of smells greeted his olfactory receptors. The red dragon’s claws embedded in the earth. His large wings flapped out in a temper, as his mouth opened, a long, forked tongue tasting the air. The overwhelming smell of recent kills sent his reptilian mind into overdrive.

A lash of his tail, and he lowered himself to the dirt. Releasing his clawed grip, he launched into the air, wings catching the air currents as he rose higher, higher, and higher! Below, he caught a glimpse of a black figure against the dirt, but his attention turned forward. The sky was beckoning, and America’s desires were to fly quickly, and find a worthy mate who could catch him. He screamed, showing razor teeth to the sky. With another burst of energy, he hurtled forward, quickly leaving the homestead behind. On and on he flew, quick as a comet. Below, the green forests of peninsular Virginia beckoned, as herds of deer sprung from their hiding places in the woodland, spooked by the large beast flying overhead. Birds flew out of the trees as his large shadow passed, but America was not hungry. His mind was focused on his desire.

Scanning the forest, he did not see any dragon presence to have a liaison with. With a snarl of annoyance, America flapped his wings, increasing his speed. The capital of Virginia, Williamsburg, lay ahead, and the dragon let out a fierce roar at the distinct smell of human presence. He dipped lower, as he heard shouts from the townsfolk. Screeching, he banked past the familiar buildings, horses madly darting in panic below at the airborne dragon. His shadow darkened the courthouse. Had he been of human mind, he would have laughed to see tricorn hats billowing away in the gusts of his wings.

No dragons were around the humans, so America set his sights east. Flapping even more furiously as his want increased, the dragon did not notice that above, a dark blight against the sky was ever following, keeping an interested eye on him.

England watched America’s mad flight, giving careful observation to his draconic appearance. Granted, America’s true form was much larger than he remembered, but not quite as large as he was. England observed the red beast’s head. America’s horns swept back with a small curve at the end. England’s own were straight and pointed, and naturally, black as night. It was not as easy for him, hiding in the midday sun, but as America was so focused on his speed, he hadn’t registered anything above him nor the large shadow below him. England gave a large flap of his black wings, as the distance between them began to decrease.

America was beginning to slow down, which would be England’s advantage. With a swipe of his night black wings, a helpful breeze carried the larger reptile higher. The younger male had not noticed him yet. Having experience, England knew better than to strike at America’s full strength. Caution had taught him to wait. It would not be much longer.

America’s wings were no longer flapping as hard, having expended energy. He briefly flew over a collection of human skiffs trawling the Chesapeake, to which he paid no mind. Soon they were gone, and he traced the coastline, wings tapping an easy rhythm. While America was still in the throes of sexual urgency, he felt a comfortable high in his instincts, trusting that nature would take its course.

Which was thrown entirely off balance when out of nowhere a black shadow dove from above the clouds. America halted in mid-flight, hovering as did the larger black dragon soared ahead. The red dragon hissed in defiance, baring his teeth menacingly. He would not be caught so quickly.

The black dragon hovered, unperturbed by the threat. As a matter of fact, it opened its jaws and blew forth a plume of flame, as a gesture of dominance. America’s interest increased at this clever display. But he wasn’t content to let a fire trick determine his fate. With a loud roar he dropped down, spiraling to the ocean in a means to get away.

But the black was ready for this. America suddenly realized that the heavier black dragon was flying faster down, which was his mistake. The red dragon righted himself to punch away, but the black was prepared. The two beasts crashed in the air, tails, claws, and wings colliding. America roared in anger at this, but the black dragon was unperturbed as it shifted its bulk to lay on top of the red beast. He entwined his long neck with America’s, and the black claws dug into his shoulders, holding them together in the air, locking them in place.

Now the black dragon was forced to use his wings to hold them both in the air, but he was large and strong enough for this. America struggled as the larger black dragon held him close, realizing he was caught. He let out a shriek.

 _America…_ called a soothing voice in his mind. A pang of longing ran through the red dragon, and a realization that yes, this larger creature had won him fairly. He began to relax in the larger dragon’s embrace, as the black beast let out a pleased rumble. America emitted a croon in return. The black dragon, sensing victory, began to trace his snout alongside America’s long neck. The black muzzle crept along this throat, smelling him. Likewise, America could smell his suitor. The smell was familiar. It reminded him of love.

The two tails intertwined with each other, and America, without a moment’s hesitation, allowed the larger male entrance to mate. He opened his red wings, as the black dragon opened his larger wings. The wind carried the hovering pair, and the two cruised the coastline, locked in passion, for a long, sustained mating flight.

“America… “ England called him now, softly.

America moaned. “Please…Please…”

England extended his jaws, and without further ado, dropped his head down to the flesh between America’s shoulder and throat and sunk his fangs into the tanned flesh, as to leave a mark. As he did this, the older nation thrust into him, which sent America’s system into overdrive. The Island Nation clamped his teeth down as he rocked into America, the youth moaning, “Oh…oh! Engl-..please!”

After the flight, the two had found themselves resting on a deserted beach, somewhere north of Virginia along the coastline. The two Dragons had conducted their mating flight for several long, pleasurable hours. This was not the end, as they had re-transformed into human form, and a desperate America had all but thrown himself at the other Nation. England, likewise, driven by instinct, was considerably invested in pleasing his partner. The younger man was pinned against the sand, his head tossing back and forth in desire. England hovered above, groaning.

After several more minutes of coupling did England find his release. With a final gasp of exertion, he fell over America. He had stamina, granted, but having held America with his own strength had left the black beast exhausted. America was whimpering though, suggesting while England craved a respite, the younger creature wasn’t quite there yet.

“You will be the death of me,” England sighed, as America nuzzled his throat in a gesture of draconic amorousness, “And I imagine when your heat is done, you will not be so enthused for this type of activity.”

“I want you,” America replied, tracing his teeth on England’s throat, sighing, “Only you…”

“You do not know what you say.”

“Hm.” replied America, giving the older man’s throat a lick. England wondered when America started sounding like him. Banishing the thought, he reached a hand down to encourage America’s release. The younger all but fell over England in delight, as the older Nation stroked him to completion.

Afterwards, America exhaled and curled up against England’s bare chest, much akin to how they used to embrace when he was but a child. England sighed and allowed the closeness, resting his head on top of America’s to think. America was at an age much younger than England had been when he had first risen, but then, America was also physically older and larger. His human appearance suggested…. England supposed just shy of 16 years, despite the boy’s emergence in 1608, over a hundred years ago.

 _I will leave him soon_ , he thought, a human thought nagging him, _He will be confused and distraught about all this._

While physically America was a young adult, emotionally, he acted much younger. America was gentle, fit to crying over small things. England was no such entity, having been bred on the battlefield, destroying invading armies over the centuries, subjected to the cruelties of humankind. There were no other beasts such as Nations- which made them, as a species, mostly solitary. Granted, Europe was a cluster of Nations fighting and mating with each other, but for the most part, they kept to themselves.

America was lonely, England sensed. And with that loneliness coupled with this type of bonding, there would be a desire for England to stay with him, always, which he simply could not do. There were colonies to subject, expansions to run. America was not the only dragon to subdue.

_And that fucking France…._

England growled, his mood plummeting as he thought of his rival. There was enough warfare going on back home. The recent war of Austrian succession had taken enough of his goodwill. The fact that America was hinting at yet another conflict suggested England’s brief peace was soon to end.

But no matter. For now, he held his young lover. And upon his wakening, they mated several more times, joined together as America’s first heat came to a close.


	3. War and Things Like it

September, 1759

“Canada! You shall open these gates, or so help me, I’ll break them down!”

_Just go away, you prick._

This was all America’s fault: after an unprovoked attack on a French fortification in 1754, the events that followed had led the two bordering colonies to war. Representing their larger rivals, France and England, over the years the battles had begun to escalate and spiral out of control, as the conflict in Europe likewise erupted. Now they found themselves in a 3-month engagement in Quebec. America, on Britain’s behalf, continued to wage war to secure the city.

“You belong with me, brother! Open the gates, you papist!”

Canada scowled from his position on the ramparts, not willing to rise in an argument with his arrogant sibling in English, nor be provoked into doing something rash and stupid. But as soon as the older colony began slamming on the door, did he peek over, to glare down at the similar blonde with his lavender eyes. America raised his own blue eyes, narrowed, as the slitted pupils haughtily stared up at Canada.

“ _Foutre le camp_!” the younger snapped, his temper getting the better of him.

“You know I don’t know what that means!” America slammed his shoulder into the bound gates. Canada looked to his left and right, where the remaining French soldiers remained poised, watching in disbelief as this lone redcoat berated them. Canada knew America understood him. He was just being stubborn. Per usual.

“There’s no point shooting him… for now,” Canada had informed them initially, as their weapons raised at America’s approach, “It would be a waste of ammunition. He is like me.” Which, in that knowledge, made Canada’s heart rate increase. If America had begun to sustain flame, he was liable to torch the fort. And he would be powerless to stop it. Canada’s rate of growth had not met the freakish quickness of America’s, and as such, he could only fight with his teeth and claws. But in that regard, Canada was effective at this style of fighting. Perhaps America would win between the two, but he would be sufficiently injured. They both knew this. And while bullets would not kill him, wings full of holes made flying difficult.

That was probably why America was in human form, trying to get him to come down and surrender using his poor attempts at intimidation, rather than flying in and being shot at by a superior force. But still, this confidence had to come from somewhere. If America was here, trying to get an easy submission out of him, England would be close by. Hopefully, his colonizer would return to the city, to chase America out before England arrived, as he had successfully done several times.

“Do not be frightened of him, dearest.” France had consoled him earlier that morning, his arms keeping the stoic Canada warm in the cool air, “He is simply trying to impress his beloved _Angleterre_.” Beloved? Canada began to think about that, and shuddered. God knew what the English got up to. Canada really didn’t want to know.

America finally left after an hour, spitting out a few more insults as he stalked off. Surely it was divine intervention, for not even thirty minutes later did the sky fill with the sound of a terrific roar. The French forces let out a cheer of support, as down from the heavens swooped a large, sky-blue dragon. The beast was elegant and fierce, soon hovering above them. His wings were blue and white, and in the late morning sun, his body gleamed with shimmering scales. He was quite beautiful among their kind. Canada focused his mind, utilizing the psychic bond the nations used to speak while in their dragon forms.

_Canada, we are to fight today!_ France’s glee could not be contained, as he spiraled above the fort. His colony gave a half-sigh, half-smile in return. While he did not share in his colonizer’s draconic bloodlust, the bond he shared with France would demonstrate his devoted support. Where the other Nation went, Canada and his people would follow.

_Will we be led by General Montcalm?_ he asked, already knowing the answer.

_Of course, clever boy! You are to fly at my side. Perhaps today you shall flame Amérique! Or perhaps I will. That would send Angleterre into a frenzy. Though…. I should think it best if you do so. That distraction shall be our victory!”_

Canada was slightly bemused, thinking to himself: _Any excuse to flay England._

_We fly to the plains of Abraham,_ France continued, as he swooped around the fort in a large circle, _We are over 13,000 strong. Angleterre will be forced to capitulate. Come! Their forces are trying to establish themselves. We must not waste time. We shall meet them in combat and send them running back to the river!_

France was eager for a victory, and to be honest, Canada was as well. He shrugged off his blue coat, as his accompanying Soldiers politely stepped back to give him room. His red ear fins, a shade lighter than America’s, flicked as scales began creeping up his body. Horns sprouted from his head as his mouth pulled into a snout. His transformations were always efficient- and moments later he had leapt into the air, to finish growing, lest his great weight cause the outcropping of the fort to break in two.

France patiently waited above, as Canada climbed into the heavens to join him. Briefly, the two touched noses, and Canada exhaled. France’s familiar scent gave him the calm his human anxiety sought. His tail gave a silent lash in the air.

_You shall do well_. France said, blue eyes gleaming.

_For you, I will_. Canada replied.

“Where were you!?” England threw a book at America’s head. The older Nation had been waiting, unwilling to fly out to battle without knowing America’s whereabouts. The Regulars had begun to form under Major General James Wolfe. Their combined forces had formed a line and spread out across the Plains. Their right side was anchored by the bluff along the St. Lawrence river. But not with the dragon England. For he had not moved from their morning encampment. He was waiting. Waiting on America’s return. And that had infuriated the punctual Empire.

On some level, the colony knew the Nation had been worried about him, hence his bitchy mood. Since England had arrived on America’s shores to help ramp up the warfare against the French, it was rare that they were separated. 

“I was just trying to hel… hey!” the junior colony ducked, as another book almost clocked him in the head. “I was just trying to avoid another large battle; I know it’s been so hard on us, so I went to Quebec and tried to secure the city by talking to-“

“Preventing a battle using _words_? You think the French will simply surrender their arms because you _asked_?” England snarled. America flinched, but found his mouth, “It would be worth it to save lives-"

“Your humanity will be your ruin, mark me.” England interrupted with a low growl. America thought he was vastly overreacting. The youth showed his teenage contempt by rolling his eyes. That was his mistake. England yanked him down by the front of his matching scarlet uniform to meet his eye level.

“France is not to be underestimated!” he hissed in his face, showing his upper and lower canine teeth in anger. “He will not show you mercy, nor would any of our kind on the battlefield!” America felt the desire to open his mouth and say something smart, but seeing those green dragon eyes reminded him that would not be wise. England always got in these vicious moods before a fight.

“I’ve fought,” America said quietly, “For the Empire. For you.”

“Scaring humans into the trees is not warfare, _America_.” England dragged out his name, pent up frustration edging his biting words, “You do not sustain a flame. You do not fight with tooth and claw. What are you; nothing but a glorified _distraction_?”

Now America was feeling hurt.

“Leave me be!” he cried, shoving England away. He would not show his tears. Yet… what England said was not false. Yes, he had been in many battles. His great wings had scattered both the French and Indians alike. His countrymen fought, bled, and died alongside their British brethren. But… the young dragon would not strike down on the humans. He was not the devil’s servant, despite what the Good Book had explicitly taught him. He wanted to protect humans.

England seemed to pick up on his emotions. America knew an apology from him would not come, and yet- “America….,” his voice almost sounded pleading, “Today could very well decide the outcome of the war. I beseech you- fight.” England looked away. That was the closest America would get to any kind of emotional admission from him.

“I will do my best,” he said, head bowing as the tears came, anyway.

The two dragons swooped down from the heavens, as the combined forces of French, Canadians, and their Indian allies took to the field. The larger blue dragon let out a ferocious bellow, which Canada was pleased to note sent a shudder through the enemy lines. He followed with his own, not as loud, but just as fierce. The British and American forces lay in wait ahead, and as Canada could observe flying alongside France, were holding their fire as the grand army approached.

General Montcalm, mounted on a dark horse, waved his sword to encourage the advance. Canada could not hear his words from his position above, but he anticipated it was for the troops. Montcalm was well-trained in the art of European warfare, and while Canada’s people preferred the fighting style of militiamen, there was no doubt in the colony’s mind they would perform admirably under his leadership.

The French forces below paused, and France went upwards into the sky, Canada attending to him at a regular pace. He did not see England or America. Perhaps him and France could quickly dispatch of the English and be done with it. But not without a signal from Montcalm. The French General was adamant they follow his commands, and the dragons obeyed. Minutes passed in silence as a hush over the battlefield, neither side making a move. But this soon passed- the French forces finally fired a volley, which encouraged the accompanying dragons to make their forward movement.

Then the British returned fire.

And then…again!

Canada marveled at their resourcefulness. They had pre-loaded their muskets! The French and Canadians dropped, Montcalm screaming obscenities, his dark horse rearing in the air.

_France!_ He called to the dragon, who roared in anger at this tactic, swooping down to engage the reloading British. The French force, unprepared for this sudden rebuff, had begun to retreat. The flames began to lick at France’s mouth, as he made the unmistakable noise of a dragon about to flame.

**WHAM!**

France’s chance to decimate the opposing force in a fiery breath was checked by England, who had descended violently from the heavens. The beasts were equal in size, and in the air, they flew against each other in a vicious dance. France’s teeth were bared, fiercely digging his white claws around England’s muzzle. England’s black wings flapped rapidly out as he ran hooked claws against France’s white belly. Both of them were roaring at each other, and men on both sides, retreating and advancing, aimed bullets at the creatures in assistance, lest their Nation fall prey to the other.

Canada swooped to assist France, but then, America was there. Darker in color, the young dragon roared at his twin as they engaged each other. America’s claws scratched at Canada’s eyes, while Canada’s teeth went to his leg, clamping down as the other shrieked in pain. Lacking the experience of aerial fighting like the European nations, the two younger dragons soon crashed into the ground, horses and men scattering as they rolled in the dirt, mouths snapping at each other, hissing, necks poised like serpents as they wrestled on the ground.

America let out a screech, and Canada noticed that to his left-hand side, a scarlet clad man was lying on the battlefield, near to where they were engaged. He wasn’t too familiar with the British rank system, but judging by the epaulets, he may very well have been the commander of their forces. Blood from several bullet wounds was leaking onto the earth.

_You killed General Wolfe!_ America’s voice accused. Ah, so it _was_ their commander. But no, Canada hadn’t killed him. A volley of gunfire had. But in America’s eyes, this was all his fault.

_Welcome to warfare, brother!_ Canada responded, pouncing on his elder sibling, teeth embedding in his back. Another shriek came from above, and Canada’s eyes rolled up, to observe that France had locked his jaws on England’s throat. The black dragon was choking. America thrashed violently at this, at last managing to shake Canada off. America leapt ahead on the ground, his wings flapping madly, in a means of escape. Canada watched in disbelief as America abandoned his sovereign, flying away from the dueling Nations.

France was laughing at this, as England twisted in his grasp. The blue dragon was furious at the French retreat, but he would not allow the British to advance further. France roared out, so all could hear: _Yet another failure, Angle-_ but suddenly the royal blue let out a scream of agony, releasing England’s throat as he cast his blue head forward.

Canada’s attention also turned ahead. And he wished he hadn’t.

America was amid the retreating French forces. His head was pointed skyward, and his razor-sharp teeth were exposed. Half of a black horse and what looked like a human arm were clamped between his teeth. Like a huge wolf, the red dragon was shaking the body back and forth, wings flapping out, buffering the few soldiers that had come to defend their leader.

The great General Montcalm, who had always had a good word for Canada, had met his grisly end in America’s jaws.

Canada really did not think he could hate America more.

England groaned as the physician took another look at his handwork, tracing worn hands on the sutures. It had been several days since the battle, where the human had hastily stitched his flesh, which like his dragon form, bore the ravages of France’s teeth.

“Your throat, my nation, should heal in several weeks times… but for your kind…”

“A day or more, at most.” England remarked, rubbing at the stitches with his sharp fingernails.

“Ah yes, very well.” The man stood back, respectfully allowing his space. Quebec was England’s. France and Canada, after the shock of the British route, had eventually fled west. The war wasn’t over, but the Nation had a premonition that this was sign of future successes. He left the medical facility, walking stiffly past the many rows of hastily erected tents. He observed the newly appointed commander, James Murray, move among the troops, a lieutenant constantly attending him.

_Speaking of attendants_ …. England walked over to his own tent. He had been offered a choice of repurposed French homes, but found more comfortability in something he had erected himself. He approached the tent’s flap, pushing it aside to reveal its occupant within.

America was curled up in his bed. Well, he should say, their bed. At the war’s outbreak, they had had separate beds, but as it progressed, America had snuck too often into England’s own. Not that England minded. However, America had fallen into a sullen disposition since the battle of the plains. This wasn’t too horrible for the Empire, as his wounds prevented him coupling with the other dragon. However, it was beginning to fray England’s patience.

“America,” the Nation addressed him, which had the boy shuddering. A meek voice replied.

“I wish to be called Alfred.”

England scowled. “That is not your name.” America threw the sheets over his head, burying further into a ball in the bed as he once again spoke, in a small voice:

“It is what Governor Ratcliffe named me. They all said I needed a good English name… that Alfred was a suitable name, and John Smith agreed to it, for I wished to be seen amongst them not as a beast, but as a man.”

The boy was talking about something that had happened 150 years ago. Granted, this was the most talking America done since their battle on the plateau, so England took it as an encouraging sign. After America had once again fallen silent, England walked further into the tent, shrugging off his red coat to hang it up alongside America’s matching one. The green-eyed Nation began to pull at his black boots, neatly placing them below the hanging coats.

“Were you given a human name too, England?” America asked, breaking the silence as he peeked a curious eye from the blankets.

“No.” England said flatly, “I have no use for one.”

“May I give you one?”

England sighed. He really ought not to encourage this behavior. But he reflected on his biting words to America the morning before they had gone to battle, and the aftermath that had caused. Flaming foot soldiers was one thing. Draconic violence against battlefield commanders, however, was regarded as uncivilized in European warfare. And not to mention… eating humans was considered taboo. And now, America was isolated by the very humans he tried so hard to identify with. They were afraid of him.

_As they should be._

England grumbled. Let the boy give him a name. He wouldn’t use it. “Which name did you have in mind?”

America rolled over in the bed, the woolen blanket exposing his bared shoulders. His eyes had dark circles around them, but the blue eyes shined for the other nation. England felt a familiar pang of lust, deciding that perhaps, if America was willing, he would attempt carnality.

America’s eyebrows furrowed, then softened. “Arthur.”

England shrugged. “Very well. Arthur it is.” The short haired Nation stripped down, and he went to America’s side. Kneeling alongside the cot, England took in his lover’s appearance. Paler, thinner than he had been several months ago, yet oh so beautiful. The younger reached out his hand, the nails ended in points, to rest against England’s throat. America traced alongside the stitches, his face reflecting his sadness.

“I wish that had not happened to you,” America whispered. England merely tilted his head down, his black horns gleaming in the candlelight, as he pressed a kiss to the youth’s outstretched hand. “It is a product of war and things like it, poppet. It shall heal, and I shall live yet another infernal day to fight France once more.”

“Why do we fight? Can we not have peace amongst our kind, so few that we are?”

_Ah, my naïve America_ , thought England. Rather than speak, he crawled onto the bed, straddling America and pinning the boy’s head between his arms. America, ( _good lad, England thought_ ), turned upwards to face him, eyes locked on his face. England pressed a wanting kiss down. America’s response was tepid, but England imagined with enough encouragement, they could progress. After a few minutes of stirring excitement with his tongue, he gave a gentle thrust, indicating his desire. Moving away from America’s mouth, the older Nation dragged the cloth blanket down, exposing his colony’s sternum. America did not refuse him, which gave time for England to observe the pale body below. There were new scratches on the boy’s chest, superficial ones given to him by his brother. England’s ministrations gentled, but by no means slowed. Kisses trailed lower down, as the older nation reached America’s hips.

“Why then?” America murmured, as England proceeded to pull down his breeches, “Why can’t I rid the taste of flesh from my tongue?”

September 1760

“It is settled then!” France said, clasping his hands together, as the nails scratched against each other, “You receive control of Canada. Pleasantly enough your humans will allow the religious practices of my people to continue on, which is shocking, given your less tolerant views.”

England chose to ignore the slight. “Yes, and you are to be on the first available ship back to Europe,” the shorter nation responded, giving the other nation a guarded look, “Immediately.”

“Must you be so harsh? I wish to say goodbye to Canada.”

“I am sure he shall be fine,” England said, dryly, “Considering how easily you gave him up compared to your other colonial possessions. I shall be sure to mention that to him.” France rose to his feet, his white and blue horns emphasizing his height over the redcoat. “Ah _Angleterre_ , you are such a spiteful thing,” the taller man insinuated, his blue eyes glinting with suppressed anger. “And a rude one at that.”

“Au revoir.” England said flippantly, waving his long nails in a gesture of dismissal. France, giving a snort of defiance, departed the tent. Moments later, America stuck his head in, his red fin ears flattened with what England knew to be distress.

“Canada is bad-mannered,” America complained, “And refuses to speak to me!”

“I am sure, much like his former superior, he is distressed at the change,” England replied, not caring what mood his newest colony was experiencing. “Come, sit. I would have words with you.” America frowned, and entered the tent, standing to his full height before his Empire. England was unamused to see that America was wearing a militia kit, rather than his red regimental coat.

“Sit,” England said, too tired to berate the boy.

America frowned, looking about the meeting tent, until he noticed the stool where France had just occupied. Striding over, he all but fell over it. His teenage awkwardness would be endearing to some, but to the older England, a constant annoyance.

“Must you tarry so?” England grumbled.

“Sorry,” muttered America. He sat himself, and straightened his spine, until he was directly looking into his Empire’s gaze. _Better,_ thought England. The nation had a litany of words he wished to say, but given America’s fidgeting, a blunt impart of words would do better for them both.

“I am departing, America.” The boy’s face immediately fell at that, but wisely, he did not voice a complaint. “There is still fighting in Europe, and I trust France as far as I can throw him. But enough on that. To why I called you here, is that I am commanding you to return to the American colonies.”

America nodded, expecting this. England was watching him now, and America could sense he wished to say more, yet was waiting for America’s response. “Virginia,” insisted America when the older Nation did not immediately speak. England shook his head, his black horns giving him the appearance of additional height, “No. I am positioning you further north.”

“What?!” America said in distress, “I do not wish to leave the South!”

“Nor do I care for colder climates. But you must listen. You will go to Boston, and establish a new home for yourself there. I want you in a better position to monitor not only Canada, but our borders. Your humans are not to expand west of the Appalachian Mountains. Our Indian allies are a necessity, and you will ensure that guidance is complied with.” England bared his teeth, “You are implicitly given my permission to enforce that how you see fit.”

America frowned, choosing to pick at his leather top with his elongated fingernails, rather than give England a response. _I will hunt where I choose_ , he thought to himself, defiantly. England turned away from him then, going to reach for a nearby liquor bottle that was stationed on a small desk. The Empire grabbed a glass, poured the gold liquid in, and knocked back a sizeable amount. America blinked. It was early morning- and yet his Empire felt the need to imbibe, anyway.

“You wished to see me?” came a quiet voice from behind them. America whipped his head around to see his brother, who had his head down in the entryway of the tent. America sat himself up taller, feeling a sense of power over his twin. Perhaps he would learn more to which new territory his brother would relinquish. Together, him and England would make the new borders.

“Yes, I thank you for your punctuality. Please come in.” England refilled his glass, knocked it back, and gave a wave of his hand at the seated colony. “America, you may go.”

America blinked, not expecting a dismissal. He found himself pouting, asking with a slight tinge of unhappiness in his voice, “But would I not better serve as an interested party-“

“Go.” England said stonily. America huffed, and rose to his feet. He walked past his Empire, until he was near Canada. The other colony turned his head away from America as he approached, still staring at the floor. America scowled. The war was over! Must Canada continue to be so rude? He leaned over, trying to get his attention. But Canada stepped aside, and approached closer to England, head still bowed. The Empire let out a soft growl.

Sulking, America departed the tent, leaving the two, the tension in the room palpable.

August, 1765

America’s lair was set right outside of Boston: close enough to humans, but far enough when England visited, the two could lounge in peace around the yard in their true forms, without giving too much of a fright to the colonists. The house was not the sprawling farmyard of Virginia: it had been built more compact, and was of a dark wood. On occasion, America missed the calm pace of his small barnyard, wishing for peaceful, domestic animal company. But as the years passed, he had grown fond of the new place. He had made friends in Boston, and was particularly close to local silversmith Paul Revere, who regarded him as a son of sorts. He was very kind: he who had made his lovely silver set of dishes, which America proudly displayed in his kitchen.

However, over the years England had visited less and less, finishing the Seven Year’s War in his own lands. This caused a bit of an upset to the besotted colony, feeling slighted by the nation he had such strong feelings for. Twice he had flown in heat, but without any nearby dragons, America would eventually burn out, and would take his frustrated emotions out by hunting large tuna off the Massachusetts coast.

On top of that... there was unrest among his people. Taxes were coming and going from the British Empire, and the American colonists felt that Britain had not the right to impose them without fair representation. The Sugar Act, the Currency Act, the Stamp Act… it all made America’s head spin.

Which led to this curious evening, which came knocking at the door.

“Hullo, are you home, America?” came a hearty voice at his door. America froze from his position in the colonial home. He had been in the midst of climbing up to bed, and was poised on the staircase. “Yes?” he replied, loud enough for the visitor to hear. The door swung right open, to which America winced. He had forgotten to secure it. England would pull his ears if he was home regarding America’s lack of security. A man, well-garbed, stood in the doorway.

“I am not appropriately dressed,” America said stupidly, aware he was in his nightclothes. He flushed in embarrassment.

“My apologies,” the man bowed, taking off his tricorn hat and bowing before him. America, despite his mortification, felt pleased at this gesture. He regarded this stranger affectionally. “Might I have the pleasure of your name, sir?” he asked, recalling his human manners.

“I am Samuel Adams. A friend, of your friend Paul Revere.”

“Oh!” America clapped his hands together. Well, a friend of Paul’s was a friend of his. “Well…you may call me Alfred.” Samuel Adams gave him a curious glance, but shrugged, sliding his tricorn hat jauntily back on his head.

“Alfred it is then. Well, young Alfred, I have a few associates that have asked me repeatedly to meet you,” Samuel Adams continued, “There’s to be a gathering down by the docks, hosted by our small group. We dearly wish you to be a part of it, representing our interests as both men and nation.”

“Meet me? But… I am not a nation. You must be thinking of England,” America replied. Samuel Adam’s eyes glinted.

“Perhaps…but he is not here. In this, you represent us, dear America.”

“Alfred.” America automatically corrected him.

“My apologies. Alfred.” The two stared at each other. America felt awkwardly that the man was trying too hard to win his approval, for whatever the reason might be. A forced friendship? He took pity on him, and gave a wide smile.

“Wait a moment, and I shall get dressed.” America was never one to turn down an invitation, and after he had run up into his room, he hastily changed into outerwear that matched the style Samuel Adams had come dressed in. Sometimes, he missed the simplicity of clothing he had worn in Jamestown, but, upon observation in a mirror, he did look handsome. He tugged on his cravat, gave the mirror a smile, and wished that his upper and lower canine teeth were just _slightly_ less pointed and threatening.

He pulled his blonde hair back, fastening the long tresses into a ponytail. England had groused during the war that it made him look like France, but America had argued that no, this was the style in London, as well as in the colonies. England could be a relic sometimes, preferring to keep his hair short in the style of the Romans. At least, that was what America could figure out.

He all but flew down the stairs, wishing not to keep his human guest delayed. Samuel Adams was patiently waiting. The man gave him an encouraging nod, "I suppose flying would be faster, but you don’t mind a carriage, do you?”

America shook his head, smiling his ferocious smile, “Oh no, Mr. Adams, I’d prefer it.”

“The Sons of Liberty,” introduced Samuel Adams as they approached the door. At least, that was their proposed name. America’s red fin ears flicked in curiosity, but he made no comment. When the human had opened the room for them, they walked into a scene of men passionately arguing amongst each other. The room hushed for a moment as the two entered the middle of the room.

“Is that-“ came a quiet murmur.

“The beast, Amer-“

“ _Alfred_ ,” insisted Samuel Adams, as America stepped closer to his side in nervousness. “Our friend here is called Alfred. We have wanted support in our movement, and it would be no less important that we host our society’s founding with his presence and blessing.”

Alfred looked over the group, who were all staring him, the conversation having quickly fallen and died off. These humans sought his approval? But why? Why did they stare so? What would England do in this situation?

“I am... honored to make your acquaintance.” he squeaked, not sure what to say. Sensing they were still evaluating him warily, he gave a polite bow, sweeping his own tricorn hat off to expose his blonde hair to the group as he stared at the ground. “I am at your service.” Once he had done so he rose to his full height, to witness the room once again. He held his hat, in front of his belly, almost like a shield.

His tactic paid off. A clap came from the back, ,and then others joined suit. Not everyone responded, yes, but a good majority of the assembled men did. America felt nothing but relief, as Samuel Adams gave him a good thump in the back, in a gesture of approval, as he announced:

“Truly, we are making history, friends!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title a nod to "War and Things Like it" by Jedishampoo.


	4. Hymn of Fire

1773

America stood motionless on the dock, the cool chill of the evening air whispering around his lithe form. Much consumed his thoughts.

His people were angry. He was angry. He wasn’t quite sure where their anger began and his ended. How to begin? It all started with England abandoning him after the French and Indian War, really. And then he had the nerve to slap down tariff after tariff. Yes, some were repealed, and perhaps America ought not to have supported those tar and featherings, but it couldn’t be helped. Then to top it all off, England had sent troops, which patrolled the streets constantly. This continuous constriction of free trade, not to mention the murder of citizens in Boston had brought about this necessary violence!

Alfred had been there as the soldiers had fired upon innocent civilians in 1770. He watched as Crispus Atticus fell, others too. All he felt was rage. His companions in the Sons published non-stop in the papers of the relentless brutality of the British in the Boston Massacre.

And now? After all of this chaos? England was coming. He had sent a curt letter to America, which had arrived a week ago. Not much was given in terms of information, but that America could expect him. But America hadn’t waited for his arrival. He had hastened to the home of fellow Son of Liberty John Hancock, informing of the Nation’s coming. The human had looked America in the eye, a grim look in his countenance.

“We must write the others. Quickly.”

The letters had warned the fellow Sons of Liberty, and they, with throngs of people, had gathered at the Old South Meeting House to express their frustrations. Many of them left the meeting, marching to the harbor, and this mob was now gathered on the docks. They had been waiting for the right time and action to protest the Tea Act. And now, it had come.

The boats were inconspicuous enough. Men alongside America shed their clothing into haphazard costumes, trying to mimic Indians. America found this poor in taste. But it really didn’t matter. What mattered was the message they would send to England, Parliament, and the East India Company.

America settled into one of the lead boats, as a lead man he did not recognized gripped his shoulder in solidarity. The young colony wondered if in the darkness, the human knew what he was. But no matter. He was with them.

The oars kept in time, and soon they approached the _Dartmouth._ He jumped to the side of the ship, ramming his nails in the wood planks, easily climbing the side of the ship without assistance. As soon as he was aboard, he found a rope ladder, and cast it down for the others to join him. They climbed aboard, some wielding torches, others axes.

They found the boxes easily enough: and they were large, heavy, and plentiful. Not that it mattered to America. He quickly lifted one by one, and tossed them into the sea to the cheers of the others, who cracked the other boxes open with axes, scattering tea leaves in the cold waters of Boston harbor.

“You have the strength of a bull!” commented a nearby rioter, as America gave a particularly vicious launch to one of the tea crates.

“Strength enough to stand up to tyranny,” America countered. Watching it sink into the waves, America felt vindication. He was with his people, now and forever.

“America, why do you continue to stare at me so?”

England was sitting in his dining room, eating off one of the dishes Paul Revere had made for him. He wasn’t eating much, but was trying to put on a show of normalcy for America. He was acting if nothing between them happened. Well, that wasn’t completely true. The man had arrived in his horrible military uniform, red cloth reminding America of the Soldiers who patrolled the streets. It was a subtle reminder; he hadn’t taken it off since arriving that evening.

“My name is Alfred.” America said with a glare.

England rolled his eyes. “Still on with that nonsense. I will call you by the name you were given. Perhaps I should address you by your true name, as you seem to have forgotten it, _Thirteen British Colonies_.”

America stood up in a rage, showing his fanged teeth. England hissed, likewise showing his own. “SIT DOWN!” he roared.

America balked at the tone, and slunk back into his wooden chair. His red draconic ears were flattened against his head. He began to shake.

“America, look at me.” England said. When America did not, England dropped his voice an octave, “That was not a request.” The boy sullenly turned his eyes up.

“Now,” England said briskly, “Let us not forget to mention this _Tea Party_ you and your colonials decided to throw. Boston Harbor is now closed, thanks to your little group. Do not flinch so, I know you were with them.”

“I did not-“ America started hotly, but then wilted under England’s glare, “You must understand, these continued tariffs and laws in Boston is driving us to this violence.”

“Understand?” scoffed England. “Please. I have been lenient with you, far more than I should have. And now I reap from my errors. Clearly order is needed back in the colonies. And I have returned to re-establish it.”

“How?” America asked, dread filling his stomach. England stared at him, but then waved his long nails, remarking, “Starting with the tea. Boston shall pay for the destroyed shipments.”

“But that is unfair!” America blurted, “It was not all of Boston, but a group of disaffected men! How can you punish them all? Let the others testify, they had no part in it!“

“The time for civility has ended,” England ominously remarked, and gave up pretending to eat. The nation considered America, who only looked downhearted. He sighed.

“Enough about this. I have just arrived, and I rather our conversation continue under less emotionally charged circumstances.” The green-eyed Nation’s shoulders fell, as he rubbed his temples. “This all gives me such a bloody headache. Where is my rum?”

“Gone,” America said curtly. When England gave him a withering look, America muttered, “I have gin.”

“That will suffice. Bring it to me, please.”

Sending a glare at England while he wasn’t looking, America stalked over to one of the larger cabinets, helpfully installed for him by Joseph Warren. He gave a small smile of amusement as he opened the doors, seeking the bottle. England would be furious if he knew that America hosted humans in his home, and that their hands had help improve his household. Pointed fingernails clasping England’s prize, he shut the cabinets, and walked over to the other Nation, who still had his hands on his forehead.

“Place it on the table,” England said wearily. America procured a silver cup, and turned to leave the room.

“Sit,” England instructed.

America, subdued, sat quietly down. England poured himself a drink, and then knocked the whole thing back. He filled it again, but this time, put the cup in front of America.

“Drink.” he said.

“I am not one for gin,” America replied.

“Drink.” England repeated, his voice and body posture suggesting once again that he was giving more of a command than a request.

America sighed, and took the cup. His sharp nose could smell the unappealing liquor. _This is what I get for giving Dr. Warren the good rum._ With a half-hearted toast to England, he knocked it back, feeling the burn down his throat. The boy gagged, his draconic instincts screaming in protest of the liquid poison. He never really understood how a dragon like England could regularly imbibe hard liquors without a flinch. With a disgusted shudder, he placed the cup down in front of the Empire.

England filled the cup again. However, he did not partake. Instead, he placed the cup in front of America again.

“Drink. “he said in his commanding voice, once more.

America’s shoulders drooped in defeat. This was going to be a long night.

_America was awfully heavy_ , England thought to himself, as he carried the wiggling, giggling colony upstairs.

It hadn’t taken much gin to get America drunk. As a young dragon, and an inexperienced drinker, after his third cup, he had begun to sway. After the fourth, his face had gone red, his neck flushed, and he had begun laughing into his hand, giving peeking smiles England hadn’t seen in over a decade. England, having only taken a second drink to assist with his headache, cleared the table, placing the gin bottle back in the cabinet where America had kept it stored.

_When did America build this?_ He had wondered, eyeing the wood. A question for later.

“Oh Arthur, I implore you, do not drop me!” America laughed in his arms, as they reached the end of the staircase. England scowled, recalling the name.

“My name is England.”

“Do not be so cross, I find the name suits you! You are like a king. Well, you have a king. Why? Why do you have a king? Do you need one? Why don’t you be king?” America hummed, reciting, “Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment-“

England grimaced, ignoring him for a minute. Still clad in his military uniform, (which if America continued to flail so, he was in danger of losing a button) he shouldered into his room with an emphasized shove, all but throwing America down onto his bed. The colony tossed his head, staring up at the ceiling, and let out a small groan.

“Now,” England purred as he approached the bedside, speaking lowly. “I’m going to ask you some questions, Alfred.” America, flushed and writhing, stared up at him lovingly.

“You said my name.” he said softly. England’s heart skipped a beat, but shook his head, his black ears flicking. _Remember, you are to get information from him._

“I did, didn’t I?” England approached the bed, shrugging off his red coat. Hanging it on one of the bedposts, he simply climbed into the bed, and reached for America, who had rolled briefly away, and was laughing again.

“Alfred,” he said, reaching over and turning the boy onto his back. Second nature to him was climbing over the younger dragon and holding him in his arms. It brought back many fond memories of their shared campaign together, and reminded him that while this unrest was happening now, America was merely misguided.

America squirmed a bit, but England dipped his head down, finding the mark on his throat he had left years ago, when the boy had first flown in heat. He bit down, reminding him exactly of _where_ his loyalties lay.

“Yes!” America moaned as England increased his teeth’s pressure. After a suitable amount of time passed, England relinquished his hold and gave the spot a lick. The area was reddened, and would serve as a nice reminder when this was all said and done. England gave pleased smile, and hummed, lifting his mouth to trace the younger’s pink lips with his own, stealing breaths. _Focus._

“Where are the Sons of Liberty meeting?” The older nation asked against America’s mouth. America didn’t answer, so England gave a thrust of his hips, downwards, rubbing against the front of his breeches. America groaned, thrusting up in response.

When no answer was forthcoming, England tried again, “Where, America? Tell me.” America frowned, but then gave a sigh. England took the opportunity to reach downwards, and dragged his nails down, stopping just above the boy’s pants.

“By…by the wharf!” America thrashed, alcohol fueling his lust. “Nnnghhh!!”

A stupid response. There were multiple wharves in Boston. England bit America’s ear, which had the boy squirming. “Ouch!”

“Where.” He repeated, sitting up, and rocking his hips down to keep America’s attention on him. “Where are these so-called patriots meeting?”

“I... I don’t know… England! Oh please!”

“You ally yourself with these humans, surely you must know.” England demanded, frustration making him dig his long nails into America’s arm. America sniffed, looking more and more upset at this rough treatment, “I know not! They….do not tell me where they meet, they only- _hiccough_ \- bring me to their meetings.”

“Where are they now?”

“Fled…told me… leave Boston….” America’s energy was starting to flag, which wasn’t helped by the copious amount of alcohol flooding his brain.

“Give me their names then! And do not say Samuel Adams, I am already aware of his treasonous activities.” Seeing that America’s eyes were beginning to shut, England shoved a hand down the boy’s trousers, eliciting a wanton moan.

“Names….I know not of their names.” Alfred repeatedly, his eyes still half-mast as his body warred between sleep and lust, “Oh…oh!” England scowled in response, grabbing America’s length and began to pump, encouraging America further. They rocked together, America gasping in pleasure. But then England stopped, half-way, which had America letting out a whine.

“Then tell me the names of those who participated in the Tea Party!”

“England…make love to me,” America moaned, tossing his head back and forth, as he bucked into England’s unmoving hand, “Why must we p-pursue this?”

“Tell me!”

“I don’t know!” America wailed.

The older nation sighed, letting go of the boy’s erection and rolling off America. He was getting nowhere. The boy was far too emotional in his drink for any kind of questioning. Perhaps it was not too late to go back down and finish that gin.

“Please do not be upset with me,” America begged, pitifully, as he wrapped his arms around England’s hips from where he lay in the bed. “I love you.”

“If you meant that, you would help me.” England grumbled, seeing the blonde head pressed against his hip, nuzzling his thigh.

“I w-will.. give you a name.”

“Then do so,” England said, stonily. “Or I am to leave you here.”

“….Francis Akeley,” America said, breathlessly.

The next day, Francis Akeley was imprisoned in Boston. Out of the dozens of participants in the Boston Tea Party, he was the only one arrested.

When England returned to America’s home, the boy had gone.

1775

“Samuel and John are in danger,” Paul Revere said as he entered one the smaller rooms of his home, as America was finishing engraving a teapot. “I have just returned from a meeting with our mutual friend, Dr. Warren. The British are moving out of Boston to arrest them.” America pulled himself upwards, wiping the sweat off his brow. He flicked his red ears, reptile eyes meeting unhesitatingly into the human’s. “The Regulars?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Then we must not keep them waiting.” America lay down the teapot, rising up to stand in front of Revere within seconds. The man was reminded, even in his bodily movements, no matter how close America mimicked the colonists, he was not human.

The boy had come to the silversmith’s home not two years ago, a large bruise on his throat, and a hopeless expression on his face. All Paul had gotten out of him was that he was forced to leave his own Boston homestead. Knowing that the dragon England had recently arrived, Revere could only imagine the circumstances the that had compelled him to leave his home.

Despite Alfred’s abrupt arrival, Revere and his wife had welcomed the young man into their home. It was a strain, naturally, but the boy had proved helpful around the house. America had taken to tutoring their eldest son, and provided entertainment for the younger children, who did not fear his strange eyes or sharp teeth. The creature’s strength was invaluable in the hammering involved in silversmithing. But it must have been hard on his nature, as in those two years, Alfred did not travel much in downtown Boston, and Paul had never seen him transform.

Alfred fussed for his riding clothes, and was quick about it. The two companions mounted, Alfred’s horse nervous, but calming after a few soothing words. They rode to Christ Church in silence, where Paul then cast a look to Alfred, who was observing him, coolly. “I am to light a signal to warn the Sons. Two lanterns in the window , as the British mean to leave Boston across the Charles River.”

“Two lanterns? Easily done. Do not take offense, but I am much faster than a human. Hold my horse.” replied Alfred. Revere was not insulted, and he took his companion’s reins as the boy leapt off the horse, stalking into the church. Minutes passed, and true to Alfred’s claim, as he observed, in the upper windows, the lanterns were lit.

“Is that all?” Alfred asked as he exited the church. Paul shook his head. “It is only the beginning of our night, Alfred. We must meet with the Sons of Liberty.” “Then let us make haste,” America replied. They urged their horses to a faster pace, down to the waterfront, where a small boat met them to row across the Charles River. The small boat passed in silence of the great British warship _Somerset_ , anchored and looming over them. Alfred refused to look at the vessel.

Afterwards, they were dropped off near the old Charlestown battery outside of Boston. The Sons were waiting for them.

“We saw your signal,” came a brusque voice from one of the newer members. The man stared at Alfred’s ears, clear revulsion on his face. Paul cleared his throat, lest the man say something stupid, and cause the boy distress. “This is Alfred.” He introduced, “He is on our side.” The man looked unconvinced.

“I have seen his companion,” the man continued, “Black horns, monstrous teeth, dead eyes wanting to feast on the flesh of men-“

“We do no such thing!” snapped Alfred. Revere positioned in-between them, holding up his hands as a gesture for amity. “Brothers, peace. Our enemy lies ahead. I beseech you, tell us our orders, so we may depart in haste.”

“Haste indeed,” interrupted another member. “We are sending out riders. Lexington and Concord must be warned. The Regulars are coming out. The people must be alerted to their movements. Are you capable and willing to do this?” Both Paul and Alfred gave consenting nods.

“We have a horse for you, Mr. Revere….however.” The speaker was sizing up Alfred now.

“We wanted to propose an alternative.”

America’s wings flapped out as they landed at the third town. Revere was clinging so tightly onto his neck-ridge to the point even the dragon could notice.

_Are you alright?_ he asked, for the third time that evening.

“Never better, Alfred!” the man said, a slight tremor in his voice, “Someday, someone will write about this.“ The dragon underneath him snorted, but did not comment. Revere then took his hands off America’s neck ridges, calling in a booming voice, “The Regulars are coming out!”

Lights appeared in windows, accompanied by shouts of terror seeing the red beast on their doorsteps. _What a surprise_ , thought America, crossly, as this theme continued through every village they stopped in. It would seem the countryside hadn’t had many draconic visits. _When this conflict is done, I will spend more time among people in my true form. Why do they fear me so?_

“Go, America!” called Revere, interrupting his musings. America lowered himself to ground, adjusting to let Paul get a firm grip with his hands and legs. When he was confident the man wouldn’t fall off, America leapt into the cool night air, causing dirt and debris to sweep away as he rose into the sky. They stopped a few more times along the way, America at one point climbing above the clouds to avoid notice by a British patrol. Time flew by and they soon found themselves in Lexington much faster than anticipated.

It was quiet in Lexington, but it was night. America landed in front of the house that Revere identified as the place Adams and Hancock were lodged. A sentry stood guard, and impressively, did not flee in terror as the dragon paced forward to stare down at him, Paul Revere still mounted on his back. The sentry scowled, lifting his voice;

“Do not make so much noise! Everyone has retired for the night!” The dragon and man stared in disbelief. Revere tapped America’s neck with a pat. “Let us rouse our friends, shall we, Alfred?”

America needed no encouragement. He opened his jaws, and let out a tremendous roar, shaking the foundations of the house. The sentry, to his credit, stood firm in front of him, getting covered in spittle. Revere followed up with his own tirade, “Noise! You’ll have noise enough before long! The Regulars are coming out!”

A window opened, and John Hancock stared out, and then looked up at the two messengers. He gave a half-tired smile. “Oh, you Revere. We are not afraid of _you_.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir!”

“The pleasure is all mine,” said the naval officer, a friendly sort. America shook his hand, and they both looked to the moored ship resting in the harbor . “I have volunteered my services to the Continental Navy, just recently, in Philadelphia,” the human began, but frowned at America’s laugh. “Why is that funny?”

“We have barely a Navy to speak of!” The boy said, “One or two ships will not impress the British, let alone anyone else.” His companion scowled, but Alfred raised his hands up, placatingly, “Please do not be cross, I do admire your dedication to service.”

“Hm.” The man crossed his arms, and sighed, refocusing on the ship ahead of them. It was a refitted merchantmen, its origins of colonies, much like the youth that stood alongside him. “They are considering a new name for the ship. I may only be a first Lieutenant, but I have the desire to propose a name with something a little more meaning.”

“ _Terror_ ,” suggested America, his left red ear flicking. His companion rolled his eyes, “America, the ship was originally named _Black Prince_. I think we should abide to give it a less desolate name.”

“My name is Alfred,” America said automatically. The man stared at the boy, and then gave a smile. “Just Alfred? Well then. _Alfred_ it is then. For you.” The young dragon immediately felt his heart warm at the acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he said humbly. 

“But surely you have more than just one name?” the man continued, “Do you not have a family name?” Alfred shook his head, but then, a thoughtful look crossed his face. “What is yours?” he asked, politely.

“Well…” the man flushed. “Originally, I did not have one myself. I adopted Jones. But before that, I was simply known as John Paul,” he took his tricorn off as a salute.

“Well,” America replied, turning his eyes skyward to observe the heavens, “Then I shall adopt Jones as well.”

“George!” America said, delighted as he entered in the tent.

“It is General Washington these days, America. It is good to see you again.” The man, Alfred understood, rarely smiled due to constant dental grievances, but there seemed to be one edging at the corner of his mouth.

America was fond of this gentleman. He remembered sitting together in Sunday service in Williamsburg, as the then young human constantly chided him to pay attention. Not that it helped, but George had tried. It was amazing for Alfred to see him now, so much older, leading the Continental forces against the British. But Alfred did not forget his humble origins. They were fellow Virginians, serving a common cause on behest of the Continental Congress.

“I have come to offer my services, sir.” Alfred bowed low, to which the General gave a wave of his hand in harmless reprimand.

“No America. You do not bow to me. Please, sit.” General Washington rose from his half-bent position over a dark table, a map of Boston laid flat and held down by stones picked up from a nearby creek. The human gestured to a cot for America’s seat. With barely a shrug, the dragon sat, looking up to the man.

Sensing the topic to come, America decided to make the first move. “I make an excellent mail courier,” Alfred started as he sat in front of the General, “My speed is unquestioned; on unfettered wings have I hastily delivered messages on behalf of the skirmishes at both Breeds and Bunker Hill, and I have assisted reporting the battles in the papers. You might also note that I have excellent penmanship, and can transcribe many letters-“

“That is not why we need you, America.” The General said, quietly. America felt a twitch go down his spine. “I prefer to be called Alfred, sir.” he replied, an implied warning in his voice. Washington regarded him again.

“We both served in the Seven Year’s War. I know what your kind is capable of.”

“That is not how I wish to serve,” Alfred said, flatly. Washington continued, as if he hadn’t heard.

“I remember seeing the great dragon England flaming an entire French regiment. An entire battle prevented by one beast, with no loss of life on our side. That kind of firepower could aid us against the British and hasten this siege of Boston.”

“You are telling me to fight against them?” America frowned, “But why consider such a thing? In Philadelphia and the colonies, there is still hope of reconciliation with Great Britain.”

“We are at war.”

“But only for now! Despite this, I remain loyal! As do you! They will see the error of their ways, and we will go back to way things used to be-” Washington’s face had pulled into a grimace. “Alfred, it is _delusion_ to think things will go back to the way they were.” Alfred angrily rose to his feet, growling at the General.

“Well, I shall pray your siege fails if that is how you see this!” he fumed. “I am not going to fight them!”

“I am not going to fight them,” England said coldly, as General Gage raged at him, “We are surrounded on all sides!”

_But America is with them_ , England thought.

Their spies had reported of America’s presence in the newly minted General George Washington’s camp. Gage took this as an open declaration of rebellion, commenting in disbelief that the rebels had never shown such conduct against the French, but England had not felt the same, commenting: “Wait.”

“You presume to wait! I’ve seen what you beasts can do at a moment’s whim-“

“He is a juvenile who likely cannot sustain flame. He is barely a threat to us. If he could, or wanted to cause destruction of our forces, he would have done so by now. As you can see, here we stand.”

Gage seethed, but England continued, unperturbed. “You should concern yourself to fortifying our defenses... I suggest twenty-four pound guns.” England observed over the map, pointing at several distinct areas surrounding Boston with a pointed nail, “10 should suffice.”

“You could easily FLY into camp, RETRIEVE Washington, and you are advising me to place CANNONS?!”

“End this little rebellion humanely. Fight on their terms. What kind of message would we send to the rebels if I was deployed? What would be the likelihood of our reconciling with them by putting these misguided men to flame? Is that not our objective, our goal?” General Gage scowled, but England knew that he had won the argument.

“Besides, what would retrieving a single human do?”

“End this!!”

“You are entirely too confident of their capabilities,” sniffed England. “What can a bunch of farmers do?”

1776

They had suffered defeat after defeat. America would not leave them, but he refused to take to the air. Washington and he had traded words, but the General would not stoop to begging. But Alfred, who assisted in the medical tents, could feel his stares every time the Army would move in retreat.

Twice England had come himself to fight. The battles of White Plains, and Kip’s Bay. The large dragon had not flamed the Continental Army, but had made a terror of himself by charging into formations, knocking aside platoons with his tail, and raking down Continentals with his claws. This was dangerous fighting, America knew, as dragons were more vulnerable on the ground. But the humans did not see that. Instead, they constantly whispered of the brutality of the British in allowing this.

That triggered, among other things, the rift they now faced. No longer did the colonies wish to reconcile with Great Britain, they declared, if such monstrosities were allowed to take place on the battlefield. But General Howe, from his command in New York, did not see it that way. In letters that were intercepted from spies, he avowed that the draconic violence would persist so long as the rebels continued their fight.

And now, it was December, more than a year past since he had joined Washington, and it was cold, colder than America remembered. Morale was at an all-time low. There was talk of desertion among the men. America considered it too.

_A warm fire in Boston_ … he thought, constantly. _With England by my side._ America had reflected these several months since the official declaration of independence. Over time, had found many faults in his former guardian. But he could not deny that a part of his heart loved him, and seeing him in the sky reminded him of that incredible bond they shared. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the young man approaching him from where he sat on a log.

“You’re Alfred.” The man said. His blue uniform, and gold epaulets, indicated he was an officer.

“Alfred Jones.” he corrected automatically, but then, realized. “Oh! I mean… yes.” _He hadn’t called him America._ America was embarrassed that he could not remember this gentleman’s name, but knew that he served under Washington. He lost track of how many there were. “You are…”

“Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton. Have you already forgotten me, America?” he said, a slight twitch of what could be a grin on his face. America scowled as he used his nation name.

“I’m bad with human names.” America replied, imitating what he thought England would probably say.

“I suppose I’m not famous enough yet,” Hamilton said, sarcasm tinging his voice. When America did not reply, he grumbled, “Just you wait.”

“What do you want?” Alfred asked, flatly. Yes, it was rude, but humans did not bother him unless there was some kind of request involved.

“I have a proposition for you.” He knew this game too.

“I will not fly-“

“You will not fly… alone.” Hamilton finished for him. America blinked, his slitted pupils expanding in surprise.

“What?”

“I have made a schematic-Well, it is a sketch, but see, look-“ Hamilton drew out a paper, and opened it for Alfred’s review. It was a drawing of a saddle, somewhat different than the one used on horses. It had longer straps, and clear markings for places a hand could grip. And, on the second paper Hamilton showed him, showed it clearly fastened around a dragon’s neck.

“What?!” Alfred cried, incredulous. “Dragons do not fly with human riders in _battle_!”

“Why not?” Hamilton asked. America flushed. The boy clearly remembered England’s face when he had mentioned merely flying letters for the Royal Governor of Virginia. Flying Paul Revere had been revolutionary enough. “It is seen as derogatory, it is dangerous, it is simply….not done!”

“Not done? Who decided that?” Alfred opened his mouth, but then closed it.

“I know you don’t want to fight. But listen. I would be mounted on you, we could scatter them, send them fleeing, and this whole campaign could end!” _I could go back to Boston_. America mused. “No flaming?” he said, suspicious.

“None.”

“I will not fly in England’s presence.”

“Then you will delight in what I have to tell you. No English. Hessians.”

“Come again?”

“You think the British rely solely on themselves? They have hired mercenaries. Foreigners. Surely you would not mind chasing them for a spell?”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“But your contraption…” America gestured at it. He saw Hamilton’s badger grin, and realized:

“You have it already made.”

“Yes. Granted, I had to estimate size, but it is adjustable. Surely you cannot object?” America twiddled his clawed fingernails, as Hamilton stared at him. The dragon let out a long sigh.

“No, I suppose not.” he said, defeated.

It wasn’t as simple as Hamilton made it out to be. General Washington almost forbade it. “Alexander, I cannot lose you in a skirmish.” Hamilton all but threw his arms up in the air, not in a gesture of exasperation, but rather, excitement. “I shall be up on high! I serve you better as a battlefield commander, let me do this-“

“I need your penmanship, not your soldiery. There are others who can do this.” Washington frowned.

“None who know how to use my saddle. Besides, Alfred will be sure not to fly too low, will you, Alfred?” The two men looked over to the youth who was sitting on one of the tent’s chairs, clutching one of Washington’s silver cups. He wasn’t sure what was in the beverage, but whatever it was, it wasn’t strong enough to calm his nerves. His red ears flicked in stress.

“No,” he said, regretting more and more his agreement to this idea. _Think of the hearth in Boston…._ He knocked back the beverage, and rose, wiping his mouth with his sleeve ungraciously.

“We shall wait for nightfall,” Hamilton said, eagerly. “When you make your crossing, me and Alfred shall fly ahead, and send them into a panic. They will be defeated before you even reach the shore. The men will simply capture them with no bloodshed.”

Washington was staring at a large map, centered on a worn table dominating the tent. America could sense, at least, he was seriously considering this. “We need a victory,” the man said, almost if he was convincing himself, “morale is low, and enlistments are expiring….” His blue-gray eyes flicked up to Alfred. “You will do this?”

“I…did agree.” America said, hollowly. He was many things, but he would not renegade on a decision once he had made it. Washington stared at him for a few moments more, but then his hard eyes softened. “We must lead them, America. All of us, together.”

The boy squeezed his eyes shut, feeling nothing but sadness. “Why cannot we do so through peace?”

The man had come, dressed merely in an infantry uniform, affixed with riding boots. Under his arm he held a large saddle, which Alfred mentally questioned whether it would fit at all. “Will you not be cold at the higher altitude?” Alfred asked, prior to transforming. “I think in all the excitement, I will not notice.” Hamilton had replied, politely stepping back as the boy shifted forms.

America’s wings were tapping an easy rhythm above the marching army, the strange feeling of leather around his neck. But it did not bother him as much as he thought it would, and his rider was not a terrified Paul Revere. Hamilton was a natural. And the saddle had fit. Perhaps _slightly_ tighter than would be ideal, but it would be worse if it was too large, not allowing the man to seat comfortably.

“You alright, America?” called Hamilton, leaning down and giving the red dragon an affectionate slap against his neck. Despite his reservations, and Hamilton’s constant chase for glory, Alfred found himself warming up to the firebrand.

_You should ask yourself that_ , America said, a slight tease in his voice _. I am not the one dressed in a mere infantryman’s garb!_ Hamilton snorted, and gave him another slap.

While Washington’s ragtag army certainly were not the trained foot soldiers of the British Empire, they surprisingly maintained enough discipline to remain silent in the presence of the dragon flying overhead their marching formation. The General led at the front, and sooner than Alfred expected, they were gathered at the banks of the Delaware River. The weather was worsening, and the dragon wondered if Washington’s gamble would pay off.

_It’s up to me to present them with an easy victory. I can do this without bloodshed. I am to lead._ America fought the urge to roar, and swooped ahead of the formation, hovering above the banks of the river, eyes trained on Washington. Cold rain began to fall, and America took pity on the huddled Soldiers, some with mere rags for shoes, their feet leaving bloody imprints below.

Washington was alongside John Glover, who was in command of the crossing. The two looked skyward. The General withdrew his sword, raised it up high, and then slashed it down. Hamilton, at the ready, withdrew his own sword and pumped it in the air in solidarity. As soon as Hamilton had finished his response, Alfred narrowed his eyes. _Hold on_ , he warned his rider. He felt Alexander flatten against his neck. Without a moment’s hesitation, he darted away, and they hastened across the river, flying at a rapid pace.

Soon, Trenton approached, and America went higher in the air. As he climbed in the sky, he could see the encampments, some guards patrolling, but mostly, a camp at ease. _This will be easy. A roar, and they shall flee, like they did when England and I…._

A cold chill filled his heart.

_When England and I…._

_England and…._

In a sudden panic, America realized had never done this alone. England would attack, and he would chase. They had always done this together, as a pair. No one wished to remain under a dragon’s attack, and America’s presence enforced the desire to run. How could this tactic work when he was a single dragon? He shook his head as he swooped up higher in distress, Hamilton letting out a yelp of surprise.

“Let me know when you plan to do that again!” Hamilton complained, “I almost fell off!”

America was trying to calm his nerves. _They’ll run,_ he said to himself, worried, _they won’t stand and fight, they’ll run, they always do…_ the dragon hovered higher above. _Hamilton, I will drop, at your command._

Alexander Hamilton thumped his neck, and withdrew his blade. “Victory or Death!” he called. America folded his wings and dropped.

And then… they began to fire upon him.

Washington rode ahead, seeing the black smoke rising over the town of Trenton several miles away. It blackened the morning air, and a somber silence had fallen over the marching troops as they drew closer, the smell permeating the chilled air. Two men had died during the march to Trenton, so the mood had already been subdued to begin with.

What greeted them as they arrived at the Hessian outpost was a scene out of hell.

Charred skeletons littered the grounds, buildings blown out, some frames remaining, others piles of rubble. Blackened pieces of men, crisped slabs of horses were being attended to by swarms of flies. Some of the corpses were not as badly burned as the others, and showed symptoms of extreme blistering. Scorched swords littered the grounds, some fused together as they had melted in the dirge of fire. Weapons, twisted and gnarled, were rendered useless to anyone, lay alongside their owners, or fused into piles.

Hamilton was sitting, forlorn, in the center of the grisly scene, on the top of a stone well. His normally neat hair was mussed, having been exposed to heat and wind. As Washington dismounted, he approached the seated Hamilton. The younger man looked subdued.

“Survivors?” the General asked, cautiously. Alexander shook his head, taking a shaking hand and running through it his hair.

“America?”

“In the woods.”

Washington’s eyes flicked up to observe the trees, but he could not see America’s location. He strode away from Hamilton, facing his men. They were watching, some wide-eyed, others with eyes averted. He cleared his throat.

“We have sacrificed much this campaign. And it is not over. This triumph came at a terrible cost, but it saved the lives of you, your wives, your children, and your children’s children. This is perhaps not the victory I desired, but it is the victory we have earned.”

Silence. But then, a rifle was raised in the air. And then another. And soon, hundreds were raised, silently in salute. Washington, his heart heavy, replied:

“This is a glorious day for our country.”


	5. The Spoils of War

1778

“Why don’t you sit, _mon cher_?”

“I’d rather not,” America said stiffly, his red ears lying flat against his head. He stood rigidly in the tent, his crisp blue uniform flat against his body. France observed him lazily from his seat, one blue ear flicking. The older dragon gave him a judging assessment.

“You are so unlike Mr. Franklin, _Amérique_. You have no manners. Like _Angleterre_.” At that comparison, America scowled, and sat in the proffered chair.

“Much better.” France said, his eyes half-lidded, slitted pupils locked on his newest ally. “Would you care for wine?” America wanted to refuse, but knew better. “That would be very kind of you.” France waved a manicured hand, and a human attendant brought forth a beautiful glass, its content a ruby red, which Alfred gently took.

“I have heard _Angleterre_ still refuses to flame American regiments. _Mon Dieu_ , I have to say, I was shocked to hear it! I did not think the English would let you go so far with your small rebellion. But even that was not as surprising as when I learned _you_ had done it against a group of sleeping mercenaries.”

America’s eyes closed for a moment, but opened, as he steeled his nerves, and replied automatically. “I did it once. It was necessary for furthering the cause of independence.” He took a small sip of wine.

“Hm.” France replied, likewise taking a drink from his own glass. “Naturally, flaming can be prevented if another dragon is on the field. It is very difficult to sustain a fire when someone is attacking you, no?” France’s eyes gave him a look bordering on dislike, “Especially when you are fighting two against one.”

“Yes,” America said, sensing France’s implied irritation. He decided to steer the conversation elsewhere. “I did want to thank you for your alliance with us.” France’s countenance morphed into a smug look, so Alfred continued, “Your continued supplies, and now your active involvement, will truly change the tide of this war.”

“Oh yes, I think so too. I must say, I doubted your early successes, but when the court learned of your success in Saratoga, then, naturally, we were assured of your ultimate victory.”

“We have also been honored with the continued aid of the Marquis de Lafayette.”

“Not to mention your other ambitious ally, General Von Stueben,” said France, giving America a fanged smile, “My, have I enjoyed watching Prussia harass your soldiers days on end with his terrifying eyes and teeth. Perhaps you should try it! I’m sure you’d be good at it.”

“I prefer to aid General Washington.”

“No, that is not quite true.” France rose from his seat, walking forward, more elegant than any human could. He leaned down, his horns brushing America’s hair as he gave a sniff towards his neck. America froze, as France let out a hiss. The older dragon stood tall once more, stepping back from Alfred.

“No…. You’d prefer to aid _Angleterre_.” Now France’s smiling face hadn’t changed, but his eyes did not reflect it. “I can smell it.”

“How dare you!” America rose in anger, sputtering, “I’ve been in every single campaign since-“

“I know _Angleterre._ Far better than you do, boy. Sit down. I have not finished yet.” America growled, his ears rigid, but sat down, giving France a furious look.

“I must admit, it is a surprise that he did that to you.” France gestured to America’s neck. “It is very rare among our kind. It has been done… but not often. Yes, we dragons frequently mate with each other. But it is very, very rare when we _mark_.”

“Did what?” America placed his hand to his neck, rubbing it with France’s interested attention. “What are you talking about?”

“Do not play stupid. You know of what I speak _._ ”

“Are you referring to when he bit me and you’re telling me that means something special?” America flushed, angry and embarrassed. France smirked.

“Look how you blush! I did not think him capable of it either. How do I say this in English? Let me see… it is like a bond; far deeper than any bauble a man could buy for his bride. And consider the source! _Angleterre_ is a very repressed man, moreso than any dragon that I have had the pleasure to know. And for you, this is a very attractive thing. You are young, and naïve. He is equivalently stupid to show his weakness…. his love for you.”

America sputtered, “Love for me!? He has been oppressing me at every turn! I do not love him for what he has done!”

“No, I suppose not. Well! It explains why he refuses to flame your Continentals. He will not risk harming you. His fatal flaw. His love for you will be his undoing.”

America did not comment, opting to stare at his hands. England loved him? He had never said so to him, not even as a child. And yet…. he remembered his kindness, his smiles, how he had held him on that beach, kissing him until he couldn’t see straight. Perhaps England did not speak of love in the language of humans, but had proclaimed it to him in his own fashion. His heart ached more, and wondered, not for the first time, whether this fight was worth fighting for.

“Why do you help me, then?” America said quietly, “If I love him, and he loves me, then why?”

“Because of Canada. Because it is _Angleterre._ Because of Montcalm, you vicious wretch.” France said, ice in his words. “I shall have my revenge. And you shall give it to me.”

1781

The three of them stood, backs straightened, tall and proud, in front of the dug redoubt. The sky was a dull grey, a never-ending barrage of rain that had hit the British forces, hindering their retreat to Gloucester point. Off the coast, the forces of the French fleet kept the opposing Royal Navy checked, not allowing assistance or reinforcements for reaching Yorktown.

 _This was it,_ America thought, _this is where it comes to us._

England was here, accompanying Lord Cornwallis, who was anticipating reinforcements from General Clinton, who America knew was not coming. With the storm and prevention by the French navy, his evacuation to New York was faulted as well. They were trapped. And they were three dragons, him, France, and surprisingly, Prussia.

“You will fly?” America had asked in disbelief. Prussia had only taken an advisory role in the war, not assisting him nor France in the battles they had taken part in.

“I want to stretch my wings,” the man smirked, “I also want to see the look on _Großbritannien’s_ face when there are three dragons flying against him in the air. Ah! Brings back good memories, ja?” France snorted, which to that, America blinked his reptile eyes. “I… guess.”

“And I want to see how _you_ perform. Hopefully my exceptional training has paid off for you.” America had to admit, there was much he had learned from Prussia on how to fight as a dragon. While the youth had refused to flame, no longer did he simply chase redcoats into the woods. As he had proven in White Marsh and Monmouth, he was quite capable of enforcing violence through tooth and claw.

Now, he would test his mettle against England.

“Lead us, boy!” Prussia barked.

America hunched forward, his blue Continental uniform morphing along with his body. One of the benefits of training with Prussia had been learning how to transform without destroying his clothing. The older dragon had been flabbergasted to learn America had been destroying outfit after outfit shifting forms. Now, the youth was capable of effortlessly changing forms back and forth, without the need to constantly replace clothing.

The red dragon stood, four claws digging into the earth, his head staring ahead, blue eyes fixated on the British encampment. France and Prussia stood alongside him. France was the largest, blue and white on America’s right. Prussia ranked second in size, red eyed, with yellow and white colors. America opened his wings, not for the first time wishing he was not a scarlet red. His color was identical the uniform of the British Regulars, and this was never lost on him. _Why couldn’t I be blue? Or gold?_ he would think, sourly.

 _Wait for the signal_ , he said, both to France and Prussia, and as a reminder to himself. General Washington was to fire the first cannon for the American forces, and this would set as their indicator to begin the attack. The three of them, taking deep breaths through their large lungs, made the only noise on the still battlefield.

A thunderous boom!

It took America by surprise, but as soon as the cannon had been fired, he let out a tremendous roar, which caused the ground to shake. He had grown since the campaign of American Independence. And they, the British forces, would hear him. 

The red dragon took to the air, France and Prussia merely a wingspan behind him. The distance was not great, and soon they were hovering above the enemy encampment. The British did not wait either. Cannons came alive, shooting at the French and American Forces, and rifles were aimed upwards. America felt bullets ricocheting off his scaled belly, but ignored them. Once again, a lesson from Prussia: bullets, while painful, were ineffective against them.

A terrifying roar came from behind the British’s command outpost, and then, above their forces quickly rose the dark shadow that was the dragon England. America felt his heart constrict in fear. England was a huge beast, and the boy could see flames licking from his mouth. Would he finally reign down hellfire on his men?

Prussia, not one to wait, went first. The albino dragon launched at England, who turned his fire immediately on the ambitious agitator. Prussia raked England’s face with his claws, the fire licking at his yellow and white wings, screeching in bloodlust. France circled from below, and then launched upwards, flaming England’s underbelly. England screamed in anger from the double assault, his pointed teeth gleaming in the rain. America watched as the three began this deadly air dance.

 _Attack, you fool!_ Prussia roared at the hesitating America. The red dragon shook his head, and locked his blue-eyed gaze on England’s throat, which was open and vulnerable. _I’m sorry,_ America sent to England.

The green eyes met his own, and America could see their emptiness. A hiss, and England’s mouth opened, glowing red-gold, indicating he was to flame. America launched himself then, clamping his jaws down on England’s long neck, and knocking him away from the barrage of the other two. The other dragon gave a choking noise, wings beating against America. The younger dragon was nowhere near England’s strength, not alone. France circled above, and America heard the blue dragon inhale, and then the tell-tale sound of fire-breathing. Down came the fire, licking at England’s spine, providing America enough force to drive his enemy down to the ground.

England smacked into the dirt and mud on his back, America on top of him, not letting going of his death-grip on his throat. Prussia and France circled above. England twisted and threw America off, growling defensively as he pulled himself up to his feet. America noticed then that one of England’s wings had been impacted by the fall, bent at an angle indicating it was injured. The black beast would not be airborne for the remainder of the battle.

 _He’s down. I can handle him._ Alfred called to the other two. France growled in irritation.

 _I will finish this fight._ America said, warning in his voice. France was to follow his lead, as instructed by his King _._ Despite France’s feelings, the blue bellowed in in agreement and flew off, turning his flame down on the British headquarters instead. Prussia hesitated in the air, but then America felt his mind touch his.

 _Do what must be done to end this,_ the dragon said, _do not let your personal feelings get in the way._ America sensed the wisdom behind Prussia’s words. He was a good teacher, if a psychotic one. He did not respond in human tongue, but gave a responding roar. Prussia repeated it, and turned his back on the two, flying hastily back to the Allied forces surging across the battlefield.

The rain was increasing. America stood, watching England warily. The black dragon was now staring at him, green eyes boring into his own blue. _See me!_ America said, lashing his red tail, _it is over!_

 _You are mine,_ came the response, almost pleading. The black dragon gave a soft noise, _Stop this, America. We belong together._

 _No longer,_ America replied. _I stand now independent._ He showed his teeth to England. _This is the wish of my people._ The black dragon let off a small snarl at America’s display, lashing his black tail. This posturing was not working. Alfred would need to switch tactics. Realizing this was very stupid, and likely to get him severely injured if not killed, America closed his eyes, willing his body to shift. He shrunk down, until he was once again in the form of a man, his blue coat soaked with rainwater, giving his human flesh a chill.

England loomed over him in the rain, the viridian green eyes looking down on him. The black dragon let out a slow hiss, taking a short step forward, his midnight claws sinking into the mud. Alfred stood defiantly in the rain, his back straight as he looked up at his doom.

But then, England was shrinking, the dragon shifting effortlessly into the redcoat England, who stared at America, if just seeing for him the first time. His black horns struck out from his short blonde hair, and his black ears were held tightly against his head. The man cast his gaze over, and Alfred followed it.

Two rifles, likely abandoned by the retreating British forces, lay nearby in the mud. The two dragons stared at each other, the same thought crossing their brain. Within seconds, they both had opposing rifles. England charged, while America held his up in defense. The bayonet affixed to England’s weapon went straight in America’s rifle. The youth’s grip loosened- the weapon went flying. England stared at him, exertion from his sudden movement causing him to breathe heavily. The weapon was pointed directly at America. The two stared at each other, America’s blue eyes shining in fear. However, the rifle was cast aside. England slunk to his knees.

And then, he began to weep.

The boy was stunned at such a human emotion coming from England, and in his own breast, a fierce ache emerged. It was good that England could not see his face and that the rain hid his own tears. The young nation stood over the sobbing man, silently, in the onslaught of rain pouring upon them both.

1785

America stood, inspecting his reflection, his stomach flip-flopping. He paid close attention to his hair, running clawed fingers through the blonde, until he reached his horns. This was a new addition. Upon official independence from Great Britain, the young nation had earned his draconic horns. They were red, pointed upwards and back, and curving at the ends, like in his dragon form. But now they were present in his human form. There was no hiding his inhumanity. Part of him missed the obscurity, but other part was secretly pleased at the promotion.

He hoped to make a good impression today, and in the interests of his fledgling country, one that was memorable. He was dressed not too formal, and not too informal. Dark colors, like his companion, who was decked in greys. He supposed he would have personally chosen something flashier, but John Adams had insisted otherwise. Ambassador Adams was fussing with America’s outfit alongside him, which Alfred found amusing. He supposed the man was doing it to distract himself from his own worries. He flicked his ears in anticipation.

“It’ll do,” said John after another twenty minutes of fretting, “but remember…”

“Let you do the talking, and I’ll stand next to you and watch.”

“Right.” Adams frowned again. “Will they expect you to say something?” He looked over to his advisor, Lord Carmarthen, who shrugged and responded, “Depends on his Majesty.”

After going through John’s speech one or ten more times, and practicing bowing, (Should America bow too?) did they finally arrive at the Court of St. James to meet with his highness, King George III. It was raining in London, and they escaped their coach quickly to avoid soaking their presentable clothing. Inside, they were met with a room full of people of all sorts of appointments, who stared predominately at America and his horns. Alfred fought the urge to growl and show his teeth in response.

Thankfully, the staring wasn’t for too long, and they were led to the door that would lead in the King’s audience chamber. John Adam’s eyes flicked to America’s, and America’s blue eyes locked on his. A silent nod was exchanged among ambassador and nation, and then, Lord Carmarthen opened the door. Inside the chamber was an attendant, who ushered them in, and then shut the wooden door behind them. America and John stood shoulder to shoulder, and the young dragon breathed in the still air, horribly audible in the silence in surprise.

Because while the King was there… so was England.

He hadn’t seen the other dragon since Yorktown, which had been four years ago. Even at the Treaty of Paris, (which America had attended, despite reports claiming otherwise) the other nation had refused to show up. Not even after Alfred had written him a letter.

England was staring at the wall as if America didn’t exist. America felt his lip begin to curl in anger, and Adams gave a discreet elbow in his rib. Right. England didn’t matter right now. It was the King. And he was staring at them. Alfred, who thought he was good at reading humans, was impressed to note he could not discern King George’s mood.

John Adams bowed low, and America, despite it all, bowed too. When he rose up, he noticed England was watching him now. There was interest in those green draconic eyes. Feeling better, Alfred took another step with John, and they repeated two more bows. _This was all ridiculous_ , America privately thought, but he noticed the King George’s expression slightly softened at the gesture. This was a good sign.

John Adams began to talk, and America listened as he introduced himself as ambassador of the United States. Both England and the King’s eyes slightly widened at the name, and even America paused in thought. _United States of America_ , he wanted to repeat. That was his name. Adams continued, and as the man finished speaking, America noticed now that England was staring at John. _Notice me,_ he thought, petulantly. But then he felt eyes on him, and stared at the floor in nervousness as the King regarded him instead. An uncomfortable silence entered the room.

“I will be very frank with you,” George III finally said, his eyes trained on America, “I was the _last_ to consent to the separation. But the separation having been made, and having become….inevitable, I have always said, as I say now, that I would be the first to meet the friendship of the United States as an independent power.”

America raised his head, his slitted pupils looking at the King in disbelief. Friendship? With him? John sucked in a breath at this admission, readying a response. Alfred beat him to it. “Thank you, your Majesty.” he replied. If it didn’t beat all, England’s face did the talking. Ah. Looked like dragons didn’t talk in these meetings. He looked mortified.

But the King leaned back in his chair, and turned his attention to John, and they resumed talking, discussing the manner of France and loyalty to one’s country. And when the audience ended, and John and him had once again bowed, faces forward to King George III, did America think he saw the smallest trace of a smile on the other dragon’s face.

1812

“Canada, oh Canada, surrender your British subjects or the horrors and calamities of war will stalk before you.”

Once again, it was Canada observing America from behind a fort. Once again, America was making threats he thought he could back up. But this time, America was dressed in a blue coat, and Canada was the one in red. The reversal was not lost on him.

“What do you want now?” Canada said, pushing his face against his hand as he leaned over, giving his brother a tired look. “Well!” America looked pleased, closing his blue eyes as he held up a pointed nail. “I am glad you asked! We are going to free you from the tyranny of Great Britain and give you the same liberty that I have! Or…if you’d like, war, slavery, and destruction!” America’s eyes opened widely, giving a fanged smile. “Your choice, of course.”

“Mm…no. Bother someone else, America.” Canada said as America scowled at him. “That is not my name! It’s Alfred!” he said, stomping his foot, childlike. For a nation, America really was young. Canada wondered if it was true that Alfred was older. Something told him it was in reverse. America was talking, and Canada tuned back in, “…Besides, you ought to have a name too. I can’t just keep calling you Canada. It’s weird.”

“I happen to like being called Canada.”

“Well, I’m going to give you a name.”

“No thanks,” Canada remarked. America, or…Alfred, wasn’t listening. “Name, name, name….” America tapped his foot, his hand resting underneath his chin in dramatic pose. “Ah-ha! I have a few suggestions. Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John. Which one do you like?”

Canada wanted to run a hand down his face. “Alfred, you just listed the first four chapters of the New Testament. I get that we’re both religious, but don’t you think-“ Canada stopped, as he noticed his brother was staring at him with a look of awe. “You called me Alfred,” his brother said, looking delighted. “That’s what you said your name was,” Canada replied, shrugging as this did not mean very much. But America’s face suggested otherwise, and the blue-eyed dragon persisted, “I’ll give you one.”

“Really, you don’t have to.”

“Well….I’ll go with the first one! Matthew!”

“I don’t even like that one.”

“Then John?”

Canada wondered if Alfred’s obnoxiousness was a torture for past sins. “….No. no.”

“Then Matthew!”

“Alfred, just go.”

“I’ll be back in greater numbers!”

“I know you will,” Matthew said, feeling nothing but a raging headache coming on. “I would expect no less.”

1814

“This is a bothersome distraction.” was the first thing out of England’s mouth that evening, swilling a drink from his flask.

Canada gave a bow to his Empire who had summoned him belowdecks. The dragon had ordered his presence on the ship they were both now present on, sailing along the coast of the United States. The two dragons hadn’t spoken much of the voyage, as England had just come back from fighting with Napoleon, and spent most nights nursing some type of alcoholic beverage to compensate from this never-ending conflict.

“I cannot sleep with all of this nonsense,” the man had bemoaned, when Matthew had made the mistake of asking what troubled him, “Why did I bother with that boy in the first place? I should have left him in the fucking forest.”

Canada didn’t have to ask who. He sat down, listened to England rant, then cry, and then eventually pass out from drink and exhaustion. He picked up his journal, and wrote a letter to his former sovereign, to whom England was none the wiser.

_“Dear France, I hope this finds you well. We are to destroy the United States Capitol and the Executive Mansion. I am sure America will be furious, but we tire of constant battle with him along our frontier. Perhaps some flames will make him see sense. I hope your wars with England subside. With regards….”_

Canada, weary of fighting America, wondered if drinking would solve his never-ending stress when it came to Alfred. He wouldn’t find out. Several days later, England stood at the side of the deck, Canada standing alongside, spine erect.

“Now, I shall go to the Mansion. That is seat of their president. You shall go to the Capitol. Flame until it is no more, then return to the ship. We need no human interference: your foolhardy brother should understand our intentions.”

“My lord,” Canada bowed to which England grabbed his shoulder, squeezing tightly as he rose to standing height:

“Do not engage with him,” England said, his eyes narrowing. “If there is to be any aerial fighting, I shall be the one to do it.”

“You’re joking,” Alfred said, as Dolley handed him a vase, “We’re evacuating?!”

“That is what my husband, and your President, has ordered,” she said, testily. She looked ahead, then pointed, giving America a piercing, no nonsense glare. “Now, take that to the carriage.”

“I better serve as a deterrent to a British attack,“ complained America, taking the vase as several other attendants removed a large painting of Washington. He began walking alongside Dolley Madison, “I can win against England. Let me fight.”

“Perhaps against England, yes,” Dolley said, “But word is both Canada and England are flying against the District of Columbia. We cannot risk our destruction this evening. Better to let them have their vengeance, and survive the night.”

“That’s defeatist talk!” America raged, to which Mrs. Madison slapped him. He stared at her, baffled. No one, human nor dragon, had ever struck him before.

“You are to listen to your superiors, which happens to be my husband, and therefore, me in his absence,” the first lady said, briskly. “Now. Help with that painting.” America fumed, but did not question, using his inhuman strength to remove the large portrait, and put it outside in the waiting carriage. 

“Hurry,” said Dolley, and the retinue of people evacuated the building. America opted to pace alongside the carriage, devising his own plan in his head. _I shall strike, before even England notices-_

As they finally made a bridge of distance, going to a nearby incline of a hill, did America hear the tell-tale sound of a dragon roar. His neck ached, and he slapped his hand to it, feeling a deep undercurrent of anger. _What on earth?_ Was he sensing England’s emotions? He saw the great black dragon rise from the darkness, and swoop over the Presidential estate. His mouth dried, even though he knew what the dragon was about to do. _No… not there. Please no. England, Arthur…not here. Not here._ The black dragon opened its mouth, and the tell-tale sign of red flame glowed in the back of his throat. Dolley tugged on America’s arm.

“Don’t watch,” she said, an undercurrent of fear in her normally strong voice, “There’s nothing we can do.”

The dragon England’s mouth spouted red-gold flames, and they escaped his mouth, immediately sending the white house ablaze. America shuddered, feeling sick as he watched the surrounding area burned. They had chosen that spot as the seat of the president. America’s hands had helped erect that structure. It was the pride of the United States.

“No…” he said, defiantly, his fists curling, “I won’t allow for this.”

“You must,” Dolley said, her hand going to Alfred’s shoulder. “Survival is more important than a building.”

America shook off her hand, growling. “I am a dragon. I must be a _dragon_.”

“Alfred, no-!” Dolley said as his skin reddened. But he was too angry. First the nonsense with his brother, now England. Over the years the Empire had impressed Americans into his godawful Navy, despite repeated threats from his former colony. Then he had the notion to blockade their coasts, among countless other infractions. This was the final straw, and America found he could not take it anymore.

“Don’t…tread…on… _me_ …” America hissed, his slitted pupils expanding. His wings ripped through his shirt, as he was too emotionally distraught to focus on his clothing. Without further ado, his body extended, scales had coated his physique, and he found he had transformed into his true form, red like those soldiers below who were laughing below as England continued to destroy his seat of power.

Without listening to the cries of the accompanying humans, America took to the air, his wings outstretched as he flew down in a rage, bellowing up a storm. The black dragon stopped flaming, staring dumbfounded, as America approached.

 _TAKE THIS, YOU SON OF A BITCH!_ America screamed in England’s mind. He shrieked, and lunged towards England’s leg, his white pointed teeth locking onto a forepaw. This was a very stupid move, he discovered, as it left England’s mouth and other three legs free to not only dig into America’s sides, but flame his head. Instead of subjecting England to an aerial rout, he found himself pounded into the flames of the white house, and he flailed in the blazes as England pinned him down, attacking violently.

 _You little_ _idiot!_ England smacked him against the burning building, again, and again. _Burn like your capital!_

They rolled in the fire, and America felt the familiar sting of bullets. England’s soldiers were assisting their nation, which infuriated the young dragon even further. He attempted to point his head in their direction to send flames, but England was one step ahead of him. He raked America’s jaw with his claws, and he tasted blood in his mouth.

 _I hate you!_ America raged. England did not bother with a response, instead dropping his head and giving America’s neck a firm clamp in his jaws. He began to press down with his maw, and America felt his windpipe begin to scream for air. America began feeling light-headed as he struggled under the assault. He gave a choked scream, as the pressure increased. The world was growing dim, and his thrashes were becoming weaker and weaker. His tail lashed in desperation.

 _I cannot die…_ he thought in a panic, _can I?_ America’s world was spinning, and he grew dizzy and faint. He let out a gasp. A loud THUMP greeted his ears, but he barely registered it, too weakened by the asphyxiation.

 _Let him go!_ A firm voice echoed in his mind. A growl answered this inquiry, followed by a: _Please._ A familiar scent. Matthew?

America suddenly wheezed as the pressure was removed from his throat. His lungs began to pound for air, and he weakly tossed his neck as he felt the bulk of England move off him. His eyesight had dimmed, but he could make the shape of two dragons, watching him from the side of the smoking building.

 _Stay out of Canada,_ came England’s surly response. The two crouched low, and then took to the air. America heard the footsteps of the soldiers leaving the ruins of the white house, and rain began to fall as a storm broke overhead.

He could not cry as a dragon. But in his heart, he felt overwhelming sorrow.

1815

“I really wanted to thank you for doing this.” America said, in all sincerity. “Mediating this treaty. I mean, I know the humans pulled the strings, but it couldn’t be done without your help.” he pulled hesitantly at his sleeve, “I also know you’re busy… but you know England. He just won’t listen to me. Or take me seriously for that matter.“

“It is not a problem,” the taller dragon replied, “I am quite familiar of the relations between you and your former superior.” The older man couldn’t help a slight laugh at the scowl on America’s face. “You do not like this term?”

“I am a nation who answers to no one!” America said with a huff, his eyes flashing, “England means nothing to the likes of me.”

The pale-haired beast bowed down, to gently tug at the clutched book in America’s hand. “And yet you read his literature.“ America flushed in embarrassment, but the dragon continued, “You are easy to tease. Forgive me, but you are quite young and are open with your emotions. You make a fun target.”

“Russia, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am mediating, I am on no one’s side,” Russia smiled, the teasing look still in his eye, “But I am familiar with this book. The tale of King Arthur yes?”

“…Yes…” America mumbled.

“Please tell me what part you are reading about? I am most interested!”

 _Well, this is awkward._ thought America. Here he was, trying to win Russia over, who was at his invitation for the signing of the Treaty of Ghent, and he was waving one of England’s books in his face. This whole meeting was to end this secondary squabble with his former mentor. America was here to try and make sure that this treaty went in his favor, especially in regard to where the British Empire had continued to push on his borders.

_Speaking of which…._

He had only saw the green-eyed nation briefly skulking through the corridors, throwing surly looks his way whenever he tried to make conversation. America threw mean looks back, but often would find himself distracted. His neck constantly ached, and without anyone to confide in, America could only suspect it had to do with his mating mark and England’s mood.

And now Russia had caught him with his well-worn copy King Arthur. It had brought him comfort as a child, and as an adult, a re-read always soothed him, no matter the circumstance. Well, he supposed he had to entertain Russia to get him to like him, and ideally get him more points in his favor, (and naturally one-up England). So as embarrassing as it was, he brought the book up for Russia’s inspection.

“Right now, I’m reading about Morgana. Morgana le Fay.” America watched as Russia flicked the book open, his violet eyes scanning the pages, “She’s the villain in the story.”

“Is she though?” Russia remarked. America gave him a baffled look.“Of course she is! King Arthur is the hero. She’s the woman who tried to kill him!” Russia flicked the page of the book, where an illustrated image of Morgana loomed from the pages, wild eyes glaring from the pages, “Or perhaps she was trying to save him?”

“She’s bad.” America insisted without really listening, crossing his arms in emphasis, “She uses her magic powers to overpower and trick people. She has an unfair advantage over everyone. She even tricks Arthur into…” Now America flushed, “Well, making him give her a kid. And she’s his sister.”

“Half.” replied Russia, amused.

“Still creepy. Anyway, Arthur wasn’t fooled by her. Heroes never are.”

“Perhaps in her story, she was the hero,” Russia said cryptically. At America’s bewildered stare, the older nation laughed. “You _are_ young. Perhaps one day you will see the world not so black and white. You wish to emulate this King Arthur?”

“Of course! He was a wise and powerful ruler. I like that a lot.”

“You wish to be like him?”

“More than anything.”

“A word of advice then, hero,” Russia returned the well-worn book,” “We live to serve. We are not to rule. Remember this when you deal with the likes of England. He tries to rule. It will be his doom.”

“Morgana tried to rule too.” America quipped. Russia smiled; fangs exposed in his larger mouth. “Perhaps you shall learn where she failed, da? Walk with me.” Sensing he had scored points with Russia, he clutched the book to his chest, and they conversed more, talking of less heavy topics. Rather, they spoke of the mutual enjoyment of soaring above the endless plains of their respective home countries, and the thrill of hunting on the wing.

America overall found Russia to be quite likeable, and at the conclusion of the treaty, made a mental note to pay more visits to the wiser older nation, sensing a kindred spirit.

1835

America’s hands folded the letter, as an abolitionist gave his shoulder a firm grasp. “That’s the last one, Alfred. Let’s put it with the others.”

He knew he shouldn’t be doing this; the president, Andrew Jackson, would have words with him for showing preferences when he was expected to be apolitical _. We cannot inflame the hearts of the Southerners_ ; he could almost hear the words. But in this, he found he could not care. He was not them, he was Alfred, Alfred Jones. And Alfred Jones, the perhaps not _quite_ so human, could have a bias.

As the men left the post office, America’s eyes turned to the attention to one of the pamphlets that had not been sealed. It showed a depiction of an enslaved man being whipped and beaten. _I have turned a blind eye to the founding of my country_ , he thought, _and now, I am seeing what it has reaped._ People called him inhuman, but what had been going on, what continued to go on, was monstrous.

There was continued, divisive talk among his people, and in the following weeks, there were widespread violence against this postal campaign. Southerners were breaking into mail offices, seizing the sealed pamphlets, and burning them.

They are censoring free speech, cried his Northerners.

Stay out of our way of life, replied the Southerners.

 _Something will give,_ America said, watching sadly as the campaign ended, having despairingly understood what mankind would do, _what cannot be met in words, surely, will be met in violence._

1864

“Go as you propose.”

General Sherman looked up from the telegram, and observed the sullen youth standing at attention. Dressed in a Union’s soldiers’ uniform, the boy didn’t look out of place, given the many young men who had come to fight in the Great Rebellion. The horns were, however, a glaring indication that this creature, despite his appearance, was anything but a young man.

“I know what you would ask me to do,” Alfred said, a softness in his voice. “I do not…”

“Don’t even say it,” Sherman said, “Do not say it. I won’t hear your continued excuses. “ America’s head dipped down, exhaustion in his body. “This war must end somehow. We shall march to the sea.”

“I want no part of it.” America mumbled.

“It is not about what you want, it is what you are ordered to do. You serve as the United States. The United States is at war with the Confederacy, who is and remains our enemy.”

“They are us, too.”

“They are at war with us and have been so for several years!” Sherman snapped, “Yes, brother has died fighting against brother. And it will continue. Perhaps this strategy is not agreeable to you, but if you have any desire to end this conflict you will do as you are commanded.”

America wanted to plead, beg, and cry. But he was so tired of all of this. Ever since 1861 the fighting had gone on. And this conflict wasn’t for the romantic cause of liberty and independence. It was ugly, personal, and soul shattering. Alfred had fought constantly in this civil war, weeping in his cot every night as Confederates died under his claw, fang, and flame. They were his people. They were misguided. And he tired of battle.

 _Was this how England felt when we fought?_ he wondered, feeling again the centuries his youthful body hid from the world. All he wanted to do was to bury his pointed nails into his skull and tear away this human skin. It felt like a false mask and a somber reminder of his ties to the humans that continued to slaughter each other.

“When shall we begin?” he said, his voice hollow.

“Tomorrow.”

That night, he dreamed of a shining city upon a hill. When climbed to it, it revealed that it was the outskirts of a castle. A grand old castle, spiraling upwards to the heavens. He sensed court was in session, and he was to be a part of it. The boy had an intense desire to enter, sensing he was late to the reception. But try as he might, the gates would not open to him. Emotions of helplessness and dread filled him and he began to weep, feeling more alone than ever as he stood in front of the impenetrable fortress. Why would the gates not open? He sunk to his knees, his dress? Yes, his dress was billowing around him, and as he cried, he felt long, long hair tousled around his face, and it was all making less sense, even though there was a crown upon his head-

“Up, America.”

The dragon’s eyes blearily opened in the darkness of the tent. General Sherman stood over him, a glass of whiskey in his hand. It did not look like he had slept. America took pity on him, and rose quickly, lest he cause the man more ire. ”You remember the rules of engagement?” the man asked, suspicion tinging his voice, “Should we review them?”

“No. I am commit to my higher purpose.”

Sherman, ever the soldier, gave a curt nod. “We ride at dawn.” Sherman departed the tent, leaving the drink behind. Alfred reached for a brush located on a small nearby desk, filled a small pan with water, and scrubbed himself, meticulously. It did not matter though. He never felt clean these days.

Soon as the morning light began to touch the outside of his makeshift tent, he exited, to stand outside in the Atlanta morning. For the amount of people present, it was eerie how silent the air was. The troops were awaiting, arrayed in ranks, the wagons of the Fourteenth at the ready. They were waiting. They were waiting for him.

He walked through the assembled Union forces, feeling the hundreds of eyes on him. He was dressed as they were, but as he walked, the pace was inhuman. It was more attuned to the individual movements his hips and spine made as his long legs gave step to the front of the formation. Sherman was mounted, waiting, as Alfred raised his blue eyes up, horns tilted back as he stared emptily, giving an air of conceit.

“Lead us, then.” The man said, unaffected by Alfred’s posturing.

America did not reply, his skin reddening as scales formed, and he expanded into his true form. A whinny from a fearful horse was the only noise made, as he opened his wings, leaned down, and sprung effortlessly into the air. The red dragon circled midair as the assembled columns beneath him began to march, white-topped wagons pulling against the dirt earth, gun barrels glistening in the sun.

America cast his draconic gaze over to the ruins of Atlanta, smelling the smoke, seeing the destruction that they had wrecked upon that city. _And I am to do the same. Again. And again. God in heaven. Make this end._

When the last of the corps had finally moved away, he began to fly with them, letting off an audible roar. Several mules reared, and America was sure Sherman would have words with him later, but he would be heard. These men and boys who served in his name would never forget what he was about to do.

As his pace slowed, he could hear, rising above the formation, a cadence:

_John Brown's body lies a-moldering in the grave_

_John Brown's body lies a-moldering in the grave_

_John Brown's body lies a-moldering in the grave_

_But his soul goes marching on_

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_His soul goes marching on_

He felt discomforted by the words, but extended his wings, soaring above until he reached the front of the formation. The path of destruction laid ahead. But the song became stronger.

_The stars above in Heaven are looking kindly down_

_The stars above in Heaven are looking kindly down_

_The stars above in Heaven are looking kindly down_

_On the grave of old John Brown._

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_His soul goes marching on._

America craned his head upwards, looking heaven bound. Nothing was looking kindly down on him. Only further down. Down to the depths of the hell he was to make. He drew in his breath, and gave a furious burst of speed, flying ahead, seeing the homesteads, the farms. When he closed in, he could see civilians staring up in awe.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he reigned fire. Great flames, igniting the buildings, causing them to implode with the heat, wooden structures igniting and withering into nothing. The observing humans began to flee. His throat expanded as the fire increased, until the targets below were sufficiently burned to ash. Farm animals in their death throes fled the inferno, fire licking at their skin, their cries deafened by the gusts of wind and fire. He did not stay long enough to observe whether the same had been done to any humans.

_He captured Harper's Ferry with his nineteen men so true_

_He frightened old Virginia till she trembled through and through_

_They hung him for a traitor, they themselves the traitor crew_

_But his soul goes marching on_

He flew on, as Sherman marched to Savannah, burning, burning, and burning. Fields of crops burned, livestock burned, homesteads burned, railroads burned, it mattered not. If it supplied the South, it burned. His throat ached and his head spun dizzily; he felt the desire to drown himself in water to end the heat. But he pressed on, enduring the brutal winds, the blazes, the explosions. He heard screams, but soon, they became a din, an endless background noise in the destruction he wrought on the land.

 _I am dying_ , he thought, _inside, I am dying._

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_Glory, Glory, Hallelujah_

_His soul goes marching on_

When it was done, and Savannah had been won, America went to the sea. He lay down on the sand, in human form, the water brushing on his feet. He closed his eyes. Then, Major General William Tecumseh Sherman walked down to the shore, and stared down at him. America wearily opened his eyes, slitted pupils staring into the human’s gaze.

“Oh please, run thy sword through my heart,” America said with a shudder.

“You wouldn’t die,” replied Sherman, frowning.

“No,” America agreed, “But perhaps I would feel less pain.”


	6. Waltz of the Dragons

1867

“So, it is settled. Alaska is yours to do with as you wish. I hope it will bring your country prosperity and continue to keep our friendship and alliance as nations.”

“So formal!” America said, laughing at the wordy, flowery language, “C’mon, let’s get something to eat.”

“Fredka, we ate an hour ago.”

“I like your cuisine. Trust me, one can only survive on so many rounds of salted beef.”

“Da.” Russia agreed, tucking his prominent nose in his scarf as they walked down one of the many alleyways of the city.

America really, really liked St. Petersburg. Full of beautiful palaces, bridges, and churches. The people were friendly, and more than one child had come to him, babbling in broken English how much they liked his red horns. And he enjoyed Russia’s company. It was…somewhat hard to explain. He found they had a lot in common, despite vastly different cultures and history. Perhaps ideological wise they were not very similar, but personality-wise, they _worked._ More than any nation America knew.

And Russia did something no other nation did, either. He called him by his name. Well, he called him Fredka, whatever crazy diminutive of Alfred that was. America then realized then Russia had been talking, and his ears drooped at his rudeness. “I’m sorry, I got lost in thought, Ivan.”

“It is quite alright, Alfred. I was just mentioning that if you would like, we could fly to visit my sister, Katyusha. She thinks very highly of you.”

And that was the other thing. Alfred had been delighted to learn that Russia and his sisters went by human names as well. Other countries looked down upon them and their different culture, but Alfred was enamored by this way of thinking. “I would be charmed, really.” America said in all honesty.

“Splendid! We shall be greeted by Czar Alexander and Czarina Maria this afternoon before we depart.”

“Woah woah hang on, you didn’t say anything about that!” Alfred blurted, nervousness tinging his voice. _Meet the royals?!_

“They wish to show their hospitality to you and gratitude of your financial support. They likewise think very highly of you.”

 _Does everyone think of me so highly here?_ America flushed, unused to this amount of praise _, I didn’t do anything special._

“As do I,” Russia said, giving America a warm smile that caused his heart to skip.

“Let’s just…uh.” stammered Alfred, as Russia’s amethyst eyes bored into his own. His new spectacles, (all for show, but they made him feel that much older) glinted as he found himself lost in the gaze of the other. Tense moments passed, and America just stared stupidly at Ivan. Those damn eyes were hypnotic. “Yes. Royals. Love it!” he blurted. _Stupid stupid stupid._

Ivan raised an eyebrow, but then gave a cheerful, fanged grin. “Very good!”

The reception by the royals had been warm, energetic, and left America in a very amicable mood. Now, Alfred and Ivan stood on a balcony of the palace, preparing to fly east. The two, Russia in his Imperial Uniform, and America in his tailored suit made quite the pair. The Czar had boldly commented that America was a compliment to his people, which had Alfred give stammering gratitude. The young dragon only had one experience with meeting any sort of royalty, and that had been very, very awkward. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

 _It was,_ he thought in reflection. Now the British Empire, he understood, was a threat to Imperial Russia’s interests. Hence, Alaska had gone to him as an ally. Even from far away, England somehow maintained a presence in America’s life, even if it was to drive him and Russia closer together-Russia blinked at him, and America realized he was staring. Again. _Oh, Jesus Christ can I not get anything right?_ “Is Fredka feeling alright?” the pale-haired man asked, tilting his head, reptilian eyes looking curious. Then, he flicked his eyes over Alfred’s mouth for the briefest moment, saying quietly, “I smell…”

America flushed, and to distract from the moment, chose that opportunity to spring forth his wings. Now that he was older, he was good at transforming. Choosing which part to shift first was a neat little party trick for scaring away awkward conversations, especially with humans. It worked wonderfully on senators. But often…he forgot about focusing on his clothes. Now he had shredded his nice, formal shirt.

“Aw fuck, I was supposed to keep this one nice!”

America sat alone, reflecting. _Visiting the Ukraine had been nice._

He was poised under the stars of her beautiful country. This was him and Russia’s last night in deciduous country, and tomorrow they headed back to Moscow. The beautiful sister of Russia had proven very hospitable, and there was clearly a family resemblance and camaraderie that she shared with her brother. America couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous. Sure, relations between him and Canada had vastly improved over the years, but he couldn’t help thinking they could be better. Closer.

Mentally vowing to pay Matthew a visit on his return home, America was disturbed by his thoughts as Russia shuffled a bit over him, and then sat down next to him, joining him in his quiet company. The two sat moments in silence, observing the heavens, the wave of the Milky Way glittering in the night sky. “Quite beautiful, yes?” said Russia. America nodded.

“There is a story I have heard. That before there were men, there were dragons, like us.” Russia said, thoughtfully. “And they were plentiful….and ruled the Earth for thousands of years, justly and goodly. But one day, man came to the world, and the dragons saw their time was done. These dragons knew they must leave their world better than they found it. To do so, they would have to teach mankind peace. And that those stars are all the souls of those great beasts who, with virtue in their hearts, did just that.”

Alfred looked over his shoulder to stare up at Russia, “Taught mankind peace?” he said, doubt in his voice.

Ivan shrugged, procuring a silver flask from underneath his layered clothes. “It is just a story.“ He drank heavily from it, and pulled it away from his lips, which Alfred found fascinating. Sensing he was being watched, in courtesy, he offered some to America. The younger dragon took it, and stared at the silver flask, flushing as he thought, _this just touched Ivan’s lips_ … Thankful it was dark, and Russia could not see his face. He took a quick swig, anticipating a typical burn like whiskey.

It was not whiskey.

“AUCKKK!” Alfred hacked like a deranged python, his eyes dilated, and fangs bared as the vicious, burning liquid went down his throat. Flailing his arms out, he gasped at Russia in disbelief, “You Russians are something else!” As he clutched the flask, willing the burn to subside, did Ivan burst into laughter, holding his sides in mirth. America handed over the flask, scowling:

“Very funny,” he said, but he couldn’t help a smile on his face. Ivan had a nice laugh, and Alfred found he wanted to hear it more often. They spent the remainder of the evening enjoying light conversation and sharing their imaginings of reaching beyond the sky and to the stars; where no dragon could hope to fly, but only in their dreams.

The next morning, when America woke, he noticed he felt…off. Giving a huff of breath, he sat up in the bed, trying to understand what was bothering him. Then he noticed his sheets weren’t dry. No. They were sticky. And sticking to him. _No…_ he thought in mortification, as a familiar curl of desire spread in his belly. _Not right now!_

It had been many years since he had last flown in heat. As he had gotten older, he had managed it better, and it had come less frequently. He felt confident that if he were back home, alone, it would not be a problem, but…he wasn’t home. He was halfway across the world, in the Ukraine, and Russia was here. And he wanted to impress Russia, not show him that he was a mere beast dominated by his instincts, trying to throw himself at his feet, begging for him to-

The young dragon buried his hands in his hairs, teeth clenching in stress. _Maybe I’ll say I’m sick….but fuck! We’re supposed to fly back to Moscow today!_

A cheerful voice greeted his door, which all about sent America right over the edge, “Fredka, it is Ivan! Katyusha had to leave on an urgent errand and sends her apologies. But I have prepared us breakfast before we depart!” _Of course you have,_ America thought, trying not to groan. “I uh… will be down… in a few minutes!” he called, feeling nothing but dread. He heard Russia’s footsteps go away from the door, and when he felt he was no longer there did he let out moan.

Hearing his voice, that husky accent, was doing all sorts of things to his brain, to his instincts. He lowered his hand down, thinking, _perhaps if I just…._ Giving himself a few jerks, he found a quick, if not unsatisfying release. It would buy him some time. He cleaned himself off, as best as he could, and dressed, thankful he had opted to dress in typical Slavic dress. The billowy clothing would hide any…issues. After giving himself a mental pep-talk, did he finally go downstairs, a forced smile on his face as he fought tooth and nail not to throw himself at Russia in desperation. “Hey big guy! What’s for breakfast?”

Russia turned around, a cheerful smile plastered on, looking pleased. “Well I have made some traditional….” And then, he stared. Stared at America. Alfred could see his slitted pupils fixate on his face, and his nose and mouth inhaled, taking in the scent that dominated the room.

“Fredka?” he said, his voice cracking. Then the older nation let out a sharp growl, his eyes practically glowing. “You…” The pale-haired nation took one, then two steps forward, away from the now burning food. But after that tense moment of just staring at Alfred, he turned rapidly away, showing his back to the younger dragon. He slammed his large hands, which were now claws, into the table, scratching into the wood.

“No.” came out the voice from the taller nation, small and scared. “I will not-No. Nyet.”

America felt his heart squeeze in pain, realizing, “You don’t want…!” _I’m ruining everything!_

“To f..force myself upon you…. No. I shall not!” came the choked response. But then there was a growl in his voice. “But the desire I feel for you...” Ivan then began to speak in Russian, claws digging further into the wooden kitchen. Alfred didn’t understand a thing, but heard his name several times.

“Ivan…” he was beginning to panic, torn between his own desire, and the fact that Russia might not even want him, “I really do…want you, but not if you don’t…” he felt small and insignificant.

But then, Russia was at his side, and America felt his head being tilted up, to stare into those mesmerizing eyes. Tense moments passed, and America felt nothing but heat and sadness. Tears were falling, unabandoned from his blue eyes. He wanted Russia, yes, but he wanted Russia to want him too!

“You… wish for this?” Russia said, his eyes never leaving Alfred’s face. Alfred gave a fervent nod, but Ivan was unreadable in his response. America felt lost, a young dragon controlled by instinct, rather than building affection as he had wanted to do with Russia. He tried to turn away, to go and hide back in his room, to wake up and wish this wasn’t happening, but it was happening, and it was-

Russia was kissing him, and his mind shorted out with how much he wanted this, how much he needed this. He tangled his tipped fingernails in the taller nation’s hair, the color reminding him of a silver, wintery night. Their tongues caressed each other, fangs clacking as America shuddered in delight. His brain was beginning to shut down rational thought, his dragon’s instincts flooding him. Russia placed his larger hands on his hips, gently rolling his fingers along his hipbones hiding underneath the billowy clothes. The larger dragon pulled his mouth away from Alfred’s.

“Fredka…” came murmured voice, laced with desire, “Is...this alright that I would mate with you?”

America felt his stomach flutter at this question. Despite the fact it was he that had instigated this whole mess, Ivan was asking his permission? England had never asked…he hadn’t needed to. Russia hadn’t needn’t have bothered either. But then… why was he?

“I’m the one forcing…” America blurted, his brain warring with rational thought and lust, “I mean….yes…please…Ivan, I need you.” Russia gave a shudder, tracing his pointed nails against America’s hips, then releasing him. The amethyst eyes stared at the cerulean hazed eyes of America. Coming to a decision, Russia abruptly stepped back.

“We shall do this appropriately, then. Come.” Russia stalked out of the room, leaving the junior nation a shivering mess, alone in the kitchen. He stumbled after Russia, letting out a pained whimper at the fact the older dragon had left his side. America tripped through the door, to observe Russia was standing outside. Alfred weaved on his feet, drunk with desire. Russia gave him a measured look.

“When we dragons mate…in the old custom…we dance in courtship.”

 _Huh?_ blinked America, who was solely consumed with the thought of just fucking. Was Russia expecting to break into a waltz with him? America’s mind wasn’t up for that. The younger dragon gave a whine, wanting nothing more than to throw Russia to the ground and have his way with him.

Russia seemed to note America’s confusion, and made a gesture towards the sky, as if he was encouraging the younger dragon to rise into it. “I shall lead, and you shall follow. Trust your instincts. You will know what to do.”

This wasn’t what America was expecting at all. But Russia had said the word ‘mate’. This was promising. He shook his blonde head, watching as Russia morphed from man into a large, broad silver dragon with graceful wings and a sinewy neck. The silver dragon stood, patient, as America likewise shifted into his resplendent red form. With that being said, the silver dragon lashed his tail and then rose into the sky, effortlessly climbing higher into the clouds.

America was still confused, unsure of whether to take off and hope that Russia would chase him down, or continue with this folly. The young dragon, still befuddled, rose into the air. Then Russia hovered above him, higher in the sky, waiting patiently. America rose, hovering likewise. The two stared at each other, America twitching in anticipation.

 _Together we dance_ , Russia’s mind touched his _. Together, we prove ourselves._

Russia then dipped down below America, exposing his underbelly, and twirling in the air. He rose again, and repeated this movement. America was transfixed by this, his lust temporarily ignored in favor of this moving display. The other dragon was placing himself in a vulnerable position in the sky. Somewhere in his brain, America knew he was to do the same. By doing this, he was showing trust in another dragon, showing equality.

America flew below Ivan, showing his underbelly as well. Then Russia dived down, and touched his claws against America’s as the younger dragon fell. Then, it was America’s turn: touching his claws as Russia fell. They repeated this several more times, until the two began to rise in tandem: swirling in the air, creating a vibrant aerial display.

 _Now…_ Russia said, excitement in his mental voice, _we fall together, with our claws intertwined…with faith in that we shall not collide into the earth, but release at the last moment. Then…we shall mate._

America was thrumming in excitement. The dangerous element of this mating dance appealed to his sense of adventure, and the promise of the end rekindled his passion. The red dragon bellowed in agreement, to which Russia returned with a higher roar of his own. The two dragons then flew at one another, and interlocked talons. Then, simultaneously, they folded their wings back, and began to fall to the earth, noses pointed towards the ground. The dragons spun in the air, faster and faster- America was becoming dizzy, but his grip tightened on Russia, the larger silver dragon doing the same. Quickly they spiraled to the earth, and just within moments, America heard-

_NOW!_

They both released their claws, and America let out a roar of exhilaration and triumph, sending forth a plume of flame as he pulled upwards from the dive, his wings billowing out and sending him hurtling back into the endless blue sky. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Russia pulling from the dive, letting forth a plume of flame as well. Then the silver dragon was beating his wings furiously to sidle alongside America’s back.

Alfred was flooded with a mix of emotions, having conducted his first courtship with a dragon. He had never felt more alive before in his life. He was so consumed with replaying what had just happened in his mind as the two flew north that he was barely aware of the presence of the larger dragon above him. Russia’s mouth began to bite insistently at the back of America’s long neck in impatience, as his thicker tail intertwined with America’s.

_Please?_

_Oh yes,_ America said, stupidly, heat coiling in his belly. He felt Russia prod at his entrance, and America let out a pleased sigh as they were joined. His desires were fulfilled as they were united in the sky, having finally met his equal.

1878

 _The world’s fair…_ England mused. _In Paris, land of the culinary arts, and I haven’t had a decent meal yet._ He was particular about his foods, preferring to catch prey alongside his ships of war. Orcas, tunas, and sharks made fine meals when chased down by rum.

There wasn’t much to hold his interest in human inventions at this or past world fairs, but traditionally, the hosting nation would throw a ball for the dragons to mingle. It was a strange affair for the normally solitary beasts, but proven quite popular, as they would dress, dance, and make passes at one another without the threat of invasion lingering over their head.

Quiet Canada had approached his table, where he was accompanied by two of his prizes, Gibraltar and Seychelles, female colonies who had come dressed in their finest ballgowns. They were under England’s arms, giving vying nations smug glances. “I ran into America,” the boy said, cautiously.

“So?” England said, not really caring what the brat was up to.

“He gave me a letter, insisting that you would read it.”

“I’m not going to bother.” England said. He leaned forward, Gibraltar pouting as he let his arm go in front of her to grasp the unattended glass of gin on the table. “I did not think so,” replied Canada dutifully, placing the letter upon the table, “But I have delivered it all the same.”

“Yes, yes, very well. You may go.” Canada gave a slight bow to his Nation and left him to his pleasure. He was then replaced by France, who sauntered over to the three huddled around the table, holding a glass of red wine. The French dragon looked gleeful, having come directly from the dancing being held in the center of the ballroom.

“Piss off,” England said in greeting, sipping at his own glass of gin. Gibraltar and Seychelles both gave a light laugh as France dipped lower to their eye level, from where they sat, hugging at England’s sides as the Nation leaned back. “Ladies, I’m sure you would rather be in finer company, non?” But France’s eyes moved to the table, to the letter Canada had left England. “Arthur?” France questioned, teasing as he peered down to the addressed letter, “ _Mon cher_ , I did not know that was your name!”

“Piss. Off.” England repeated, as Seychelles rubbed her head under his own, whereas he in turn let off a soft growl.

“My my, temper temper, dear Arthur.” His rival laughed, “Wherever did that name come from? Me? The inspiration behind _Le Mort D’ Arthur_!” the Frenchman crowed in recollection, “One of your favorites, no less. So, your name comes from my book.”

“It is my book, you tosser. Besides, gloat as you want,” England sneered, “Wouldn’t that make _your_ name Lancelot?”

“Ah no!” France tittered, his laughter giving way to something more mocking in his voice, “No, Lancelot is over…” he then took his pointed nails, and before England could complain, had tilted the island nation’s head in the direction of the dancing, and said, upon releasing, “ _There_.”

England’s eyes went to the floor.

It was the style of dance practiced in the Russian Imperial Court. The “Dance of Dragons,” it was called, which was a vigorous waltz, borrowing pieces from 17th century dances added with waltzing of a modern fare. It took considerable effort to get it right. To do it, two partners would swirl around each other, representing the movements two dragons would take in the air as they flew to fight or flew to….

England’s hand began to shape into a claw, digging into his gin glass.

Russia was leading America, the two twirling to the delight of the observing guests, their horns gleaming in the twinkling lights as they mimicked each other’s movements. Clearly, they had practiced this. They would dip, rise, and step away, and back towards each other, barely colliding, then touching with toes and hands. America was giving Russia a look England hadn’t seen since he was in his youth. Russia likewise was focused only on his partner, his violet eyes never leaving America’s face.

“I shall leave you to your thoughts, dear _Angleterre._ ” France said, eyes flicking down to the gin glass. “Give Canada my regards.” Before England could leave him with an insult, the French dragon sauntered off.

The dance floor erupted into clapping, as the two finished their dance. Russia extended his arm, ever the Knight to his Queen. And America took it, wrapping his own smaller arm through it, blue eyes gleaming in affection. The partners, smiling and flushed from the dancing, walked from the center of the room, and out to where England understood the gardens were. An audible crack sounded as his nails began to fracture the glass. “My lord, your drink!” Gibraltar said, anxiety in her voice.

 **CRACK.** The gin glass shattered, and England irritably dropped the rest of it on the floor. “We are leaving,” the Nation said abruptly. The two girls pouted, but rose, in their shimmering dresses, giving dramatic sighs as their Empire led them from the dance to his quarters.

Later, as he fucked them, he thought of those blue eyes, crowns, kings, and betrayal.

1918

“Welcome to a new age of hell, America.” England said, his arms wide and spread as he laughed, half-hysterically, from his position in a muddy, god-awful trench he had spent three years of his existence in. For a beast at comfort in the skies, the new style of trench warfare had put him in a never-ending neurosis. “This is what you have missed.” The lad scowled at him, blue eyes flashing behind his spectacles, “I don’t even fucking want to be here.”

“Oh, but you do,” England said, “Don’t tell me you forgot that lovely little note I sent you.”

“I bet you gloated for days.”

“You sod, I’ll have you know that that wasn’t the only wrongdoing Germany had planned for you.“

The two dragons paused their bickering as a loud roar echoed from above, and they froze in place. Their finned ears, comically, flattened like cats, near identical was their reaction to the potential of incoming flames. However, it was not a Central power that descended on them. It was their mutual ally. “Hello cherie!” France called tiredly as he landed in human form, his body thinner than memory served. England let out exhale of breath. “Warn us when you plan to show up, or you’ll be under fire next, Frog.”

France gave a half-hearted shrug, as if England’s words made no sense to him. He walked over to Alfred, and to England’s consternation, grabbed the boy around his shoulders and gave his head a kiss. “Have I mentioned lately how glad I am that you are here?”

“Yes…yes you have,” America said meekly, a slight flush across his cheekbones.

“You sound like Canada. I must say, fighting alongside dear Mathieu again has made this all a little more tolerable. But we must celebrate your entry into the war, Alfred. We should all gather for dinner. I won’t have to ask you to supply, would I, America?” The boy, to his credit, shook his head.

“Mathieu?” England quoted, in confusion, “Who the blazes is Mathieu?”

England would never mention it to the Frog, but this was nice.

They were all sitting, around several tables that had been hastily erected in a nearby farm. Well, it was not all the Allied powers…allies such as Russia, Italy, and Japan were fighting on their own fronts. And granted, New Zealand and India were not in attendance, having been unfortunately been volunteered for guard duty, but otherwise, the other present dragons were enjoying a brief respite from this conflict.

The provisions had been provided by America. England made a point to eat as much as he could, knowing this wasn’t to last. France was acting as host, and talking cheerfully to Belgium. She was talking to him in fluent French, the two exchanging worn smiles. England felt for them in that moment. They were all tired, and the French nation had taken a quite a beating from the Central powers.

He took a sip of his wine, and scanned the room, seeing Australia and South Africa playing some card game. It looked interesting enough, and there were some financial papers stacked by Australia, suggesting risk. The Empire made a move to join them, willing for a distraction, but then out of the corner of his eye saw something that caught his attention.

It was America and Canada. And they were very close to each other, side by side, with Canada’s head tucked into America’s shoulder, purple eyes closed, and his face contorted into a frown. England was confused, until he saw why. There was a slash in his knee, and America was stitching it. America was talking in that loudmouth way of his, as a distraction, “…Besides, I am very good at this. I stitched up Benedict Arnold you know. I suppose I regret it now, but I did a bang-up job for him. Then the guy had enough energy to turn around and betray me. Fucker.” Canada shrugged his shoulders and grunted, as America pulled on the string, “If you’re so good at this, why is it taking so long?”

“Because I take my time, patience,” America said chidingly, flicking Canada with his red-fin ear. “And you’re my little brother. I’m going to make sure you’re ok.” Canada’s eyes opened, and he stared at America, as if really seeing him for the first time.

England was moved by this. America, stupid America, was showing compassion to him, if indirectly. Some part of him told him to leave them, and to move on, as it really was none of his business. But compelled, he came over, and sat down on a nearby chair. “You alright, Matthew?” he tested the waters. Purple and blue eyes stared at him. He took a sip of wine, awaiting the response.

“Yes…” came the quiet voice of Canada, as America dropped his head, refocusing back on his work. Within another minute, America had successfully stitched Canada’s knee. Their kind did heal, so Canada was at no real risk, but the suture would ensure less of a scar. America had done a good job, and England, deciding he could blame it on the wine, said, “That was very kind of you, Alfred.” America turned white, his hands fisting in his laps. “Thank you…Arthur.” Canada rose to go, but America attempted grabbing his hand. “Mattie, stay,” he said, desperately.

Canada flicked his eyes to England, then back to America. A knowing look passed his face. Matthew gave a soft smile, rubbing his brother’s sunflower hair in comfort. “I’m going to take a walk and relieve India. Now that my leg’s fixed, I’m good to go. All thanks to you, Al.”

Alfred really wasn’t used to praise, England could sense, as he just continued to look stricken. _Is my presence alone truly that terrible to you?_ Arthur felt his heart ache. But a guilty voice said, _Ah, but haven’t I driven you away?_

The two sat in silence. England opened his mouth, but America beat him to it. “I’m sorry,” said America. England froze. _What?_

“I…. didn’t know how bad things were. I… guess we just didn’t want to fight. Self-preservation, self-isolation, y’know? But now that I’ve seen this, I want to help you.” America’s hands folded together. “I know you and me get along like oil and water. You can tell me to fuck off. But…can we look past that to keep my boys alive? I don’t want them buried in this mud. Not like this. This is disgusting.”

England considered this, wondering if America truly lived in a self-contained bubble. It showed a very narrow view. He replied, without rancor, “America, thousands of my lads have died. As will yours. Dying to take another trench. Dying under wire. Dying in gas. This is war. You know as well as I do the price for peace.”

“I keep asking over the centuries why we can’t have it, if all we do is fight for it.” America said, an edge in his voice. “By now we should have figured it out. I suppose you have an answer?”

“No.” England sighed, “No, I do not.”

1917

“I am not well, America.” The Russian dragon said, as Alfred hovered by his bedside. Blonde hair the color of his beloved sunflowers, blue eyes the sky above the steppes, the round face, a picture of youth immortal with reptilian eyes and red horns-“You need to leave.”

“I know things haven’t been going well,” America insisted, taking Ivan’s hand, his left hand below his palm, his right hand on top of Ivan’s, “But it’s nothing we can’t work on together. I want to help you. I want to save you. Please.“

Ivan sighed, his body spasming as he coughed up blood. He was sick- there was a sickness in him. It was inexplicable. His kind did not take ill. But something was coming, and his mind was fracturing. More and more the cries of his people echoed in his ears. He, who had lived through so many tumultuous times, was becoming something else.

“You cannot help me.”

“Please. Please let me help. I won’t let this happen to you. I love you.”

Ivan sighed, swallowing reflexively as the blood seeped from his mouth into his bed. This young, brash, loud, affectionate thing who he had mated with was proclaiming something that did not exist. Dragons did not love. They had alliances, yes, but they did not love. America was far too human. This would be his ruin. “You should not say such a thing, Alfred. Least of all to me.” Russia warned, his voice lowering.

“I don’t care.” Alfred said, stubbornly. “I won’t leave you.”

“Ah America,” Russia said, as he heard the tell-tale sound of soldiers’ footsteps coming up the stairs, “I am afraid you have no choice.”


	7. King of the Monsters

1943

South Italy wasn’t having a good day.

For starters, Germany was non-stop berating him. Perhaps his idiot brother enjoyed the attention, but the continued insults, yells, and screams made him…more irritable than usual. More than once wish he could push the overbearing Nation in front of the Allied Powers, let him flounder under their fire, and take off to Fiji under a new identity.

“I want to leave,” he insisted, as Germany scowled.

“You wish to leave me to defend your own borders! Might I remind you that this is _your_ country at stake? This isn’t even a strategic priority. You should be jumping at the chance to prove yourself.”

“But you would do _such_ a better job,” South Italy said, sarcasm tinging his voice. Germany didn’t take the bait, scowling.

“Just go defend the beach,” Germany said, dragging his gloved hand down his face in an exaggerated gesture. “Can you manage that?”

So now here he was, alongside his humans in an outpost, waiting for what clearly was going to be, in his mind, a shitshow. There was movement on the ocean, but it was too far away for his sight to guess their strength. They were out there, and they were coming for him. His green finned ear flicked, as he heard a broadcast loudly proclaim from behind him:

“COME ON IN AND GIVE UP. WE HAVE YOU COVERED.”

 _Whose stupid idea was that?_ the Italian dragon wondered. _Why don’t you say, surrender or die?_ A loud roar answered it, and Italy’s stomach dropped. _Oh, Padre in Paradiso._

Over the sea, they came. There were two of them. A big red dragon, and a big black one. They were side by side, and their wings kept time, in tandem with each other. He was not as big as them in dragon form, and his green finned ears drooped in terror that he was on this beach, alone, against these great beasts. Not to mention, someone had told him, (probably Prussia) that the English and their Allies liked to eat their enemies.

The dragons were backed up by naval gunfire, which began to pound the beach. The Italian artillery responded to this, and South Italy observed tanks rolling onto the coastline, ready to down the approaching reptiles. The red one, South Italy observed, had a streak of blue and white painted across his snout. Under different circumstances, he would have praised his enemy. This type of maquillage had originated in Italy in the olden days of the warring states. To distinguish themselves, humans had painted their muzzles to let friendly forces know who to support. South Italy wondered if this red one knew about this tradition.

The black one, however, had no such markings. He didn’t need to guess who he was. His ruthless reputation set him apart.

The red one let out a furious burst of speed, outpacing England and then, his mouth opened, revealing red-gold flames in the back of his throat. A tank fired at him, and his red jaws slammed shut as he conducted a barrel roll to avoid the repelling fire.

The British Empire was more patient, and therefore, more successful. He ducked under the red dragon who had flown up and away, and released a torrent of fire, engulfing the tank. The tank exploded, as defending Axis forces manning the machine-guns began to fire, the missing bullets pounding into the sand, then rattling on the scales of England. He roared in pain, spiraling down to the waves below.

South Italy felt a rush of adrenaline. They might win this yet. With a crow, he leapt forward in the outpost, showing a pointed middle finger up at the floundering black dragon. “Go fuck off back to London, you-“ A shadow overtook him, and a human body suddenly _slammed down into him from above._

Well, that was not quite right. It was no human. A blonde, with red horns, red ears, and pointed fangs, had him by the front of his uniform with one hand, and with the other choking the shit out of him, going, “You Italian fuck!”

Oh great. Now Satan was here.

The Devil apparently forgot there were other humans in this outpost, and they shot him, littering his human body with bullets. Red blood splattered out of his American uniform, and he howled in pain, releasing South Italy. The green-horned dragon rolled away, as America lunged at his attackers. The blonde seized a human by the throat with his teeth, and tore his trachea out. The blood splattered, and the body hit the floor, shaking violently.

 _They do eat their enemies._ South Italy thought. _I’m safer in the sky._

He fled, shifting into his green dragon form as he took to the air, doing his best to ignore the screams of the dying behind him. England, down halfway water, was staring up at him, blood trailing in the sea. It looked like the black dragon was preparing to rise once more. South Italy wasn’t going to find out. Instead, he changed direction in the sky, and prepared to retreat further back behind his defending lines. 

He didn’t think dragons could laugh, but England was making a sound that sounded like it.

“Ow, ow, ow.”

“Be still,” England said, slapping America’s hand away.

It was evening time, and the sun was setting over the Italian coast. The Salerno beach was secured, despite a constant entourage of blunders by both American and British forces. South Italy and Germany had struck harshly down upon them in defense, but eventually, the Allies had won out. Wisely, neither of the dragons had criticized the other on strategy, opting instead to peacefully camp on the beach in a half-pitched tent. A medic had approached Alfred, but England had simply extended his hand for the medical kit, insisting, “I have pulled arrows from stomachs, boy.”

“How is it that you get hammered by machine guns, and yet I’m the one riddled full of bullets?”

“Because you are an idiot who charges in in human form. Human flesh lacks scales, or have you forgotten that? Don’t do something so stupid again.”

“Yes mom.” Alfred said, rolling his eyes. England jabbed the forceps into his stomach a little rougher than necessary, “AUGH!” yelled America in pain, showing his fanged teeth.

“Oh, come now.” England said, using a little less force as he pulled out another bullet, dropping it into a tin. “You are being dramatic.”

“This fucking hurts.”

“Let it be a lesson then.” There was one more hole to address, and it was in America’s inner thigh. England felt a blush cross his face. “Well…” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral, “Let’s have at it.” America rolled his leg over, expectantly, and England wanted to run his hand over his face. “America, I can’t do it with your trousers on.”

“I am not taking my pants off!” America said, his voice going high pitched. England gave him a dumbfounded look.

“Are you not wearing…?”

“Of course I am! I’m not like you Europeans, weirdo!” Alfred was blushing up a storm. “Somebody might see me!”

England tried to remain calm, but America’s prudish behavior was being to wear down his patience. “America, do you see anyone around? No one is watching you. The sun is setting, and in less than thirty minutes it will be too dark for me to see your leg.”

“Maybe I’ll just have a bullet in my thigh.” America said, grumbling. But before England could chastise him again, the boy sighed, undoing his belt, and shoving down his fatigues. “There!” he said, his face going red. “Don’t get any funny ideas.”

That was the worst thing to say, because that’s exactly where England’s brain went. Aside from the red, oozing wound that was in his inner thigh, his skin was pale and muscular, suggesting a regimen of exercise. Seeing America’s bare legs stirred an old desire in him. He was wearing undergarments typical of the times, and England wondered if he just extended his claw to the waistband and pulled-

“Well, am I going to die, doc?” America wheezed, trying to break the silence. England scowled, his brain refocusing on the task at hand. “Not today,” he said, taking the forceps. He placed the tips to the wound, and pressed in, as America let out a groan, as the Island Nation began to extract the bullet.

“This one…really…fucking…hurts…” The boy was whimpering now. This was having the poorest effect on England’s instincts. He bit his lip, willing himself to stop thinking about America under him, making that same kind of noise he had made when they had been…remembering when the youth was panting for him, with tousled fair hair, and lust filled blue eyes-

Squelch! The bullet came out, and England reared back, smacking his forehead in frustration. _I’m an abomination to the practice of medicine._

“Why are you an abomination?” America asked, curiously. England scowled, realizing he had said that aloud. “Don’t you mind.” The Empire leaned back and placed the final bullet in the tin. Picking up the small tin, he shook it at America, the bullets clanging ominously. “Now you have a nice souvenir of your experience.”

“Only you would say that.” America replied, rolling his eyes.

1945

England, dressed in his green, pressed uniform, was having tea when he heard familiar sobbing echoing down the corridor. It was late afternoon, and the Yalta conference had ended mere hours ago. Tomorrow they would return to fight and ideally begin the end of this war. They were closing in on Berlin: and this conference had made possible the future the “Big Three” would accomplish together. Perhaps he had not achieved all his objectives, but the USSR had been challenging to negotiate with. Him and America had pressed, but on certain things, the Soviets would not budge.

 _I suppose that’s why it’s called compromise_ , he thought, placing the cup down as the crying continued. Giving a sigh and knowing he could not ignore America forever, the dragon rose from his seat, and walked down the hallway, where the two dragons had been given separate, luxurious rooms in which to reside in. _What, they didn’t serve you a hamburger?_ he thought, but then, that was unfair. America was his ally. He rapped his knuckle on the door.

“Uhm...” he said, slightly flushing in embarrassment , “America…are you…well?” The sobbing, while not ending, briefly paused.

“I’m…I’m…. I’m fine!”

_Well, he’s fine. I can go back to my tea and… there he goes again._

“I’m coming in.”

“NO!” wailed America, “Just…go away!”

Now England was familiar with this routine. His boy was hurting. Automatically, he opened the door with a shove, not even thinking. This was typical America, he was unhappy, he was distressed, and he was crying for his attention and he was - _A fully grown nation what are you doing?_ his brain screamed. Realizing his mistake, the English dragon held up his hands in apology, “I do apologize America, I….” he stared.

America was in the middle of his bed, the white blankets over top of him. His blue eyes were staring out at England, red from crying. The boy’s face was soaked with tears, and his horns held up the sheets like a medieval wimple. He looked so pathetic buried under all those blankets, that England’s flight or fight response died off with it. _He needs me._

“You… you…” America sniffed. “Auuuuughhh!” he buried himself in the blankets, so England could no longer see his face. The crying resumed once more, the bed shaking with America’s sobs. England sighed, walking to the bed, and seating himself upon on it. He fought the urge to reach out and grab America into his arms, as he had done when he was but a young lad.

“Tell me what’s wrong, poppet.” he said in a soothing voice.

The blankets shuddered. England wondered if he had gone too far, and prepared himself mentally for another apology. But then a quiet, shaky voice replied. “He’s… he’s not himself. There’s something wrong with him, they gave him a lobotomy, he’s heartless, he’s….” England was glad America was hiding under the blankets so he wouldn’t see his scowl. “I am guessing… you are referring to Russia.” The irritation in his voice was unmissable, but America was too consumed in his own grief to register it.

“I tried to talk to him. We were so close not fifty years ago, and yet he now pushes me away. He said he wants nothing to do with me, casts me aside like I’m worthless-“ America wailed, as England responded, abruptly, “I don’t see you as worthless.”

America continued, on a roll. “I know he’s our ally, but what he sees, what he wants to do….” The blankets shuffled, suggesting the young dragon was trying to free himself of the pile. “I don’t trust what he’s become.”

The Empire stared at his feet, thinking carefully of what to say. “We have to make compromises, America. To finish this war, we need them on our side.” England crossed his arms together, “I know you and Russia were….close,” he squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to reflect too much about it, “But…he has made his choices, and we… you and I, have made ours. We are going to finish this war. We are going to win…together. Let’s not think too much about him, right, love?”

_Love._

America let out a long exhale from the bed, and England flew to his feet in a panic. He threw his hands into his hair, feeling his black horns as a coping mechanism. _No no no no!_ He had said too much. It was time to go. The green-clad nation ran for the door.

“Arthur,” came a quiet voice from behind. England had his hands on the doorknob. His heart was going too fast, his face was flushed, and… for some reason, he turned around.

America was up on the bed, and he was naked, the sheets half-wrapped around the lower half of his body. The youth, with his blue soulful eyes, his beautiful, arched red horns, was staring at England. Arthur could see on his shoulder, even from a distance, the mark he had made so long ago, like a badge of honor. The boy was no longer crying, instead, giving him a small, hesitant smile.

“Arthur…” he said, quietly. “Make love to me.” England shuddered, his mind immediately chastising him for inducing this. _He is using you,_ an angry voice in his head said. _But… does it matter?_ argued another. America’s smile faltered, and then his eyes went downcast. “I mean…I understand if that’s not what you want, I am pretty ugly. At least…according to Russia.” His eyes teared up again, and his shoulders slumped along with his body, as he let out an audible sniff.

England was immediately at his side; _I don’t care if he’s using me. I don’t care if this is unwise. I want this. And….perhaps you do too._

“My dear, you are so lovely to me…” he stammered. America leaned against his shoulder, wiping his tears on England’s uniform. “Are…” England wet his lips, “Alfred, are you sure?” A small laugh greeted him, and England’s heart warmed. “You called by my name,” said America in a smiling voice.

England leaned forward, and America met him halfway. The two exchanged a kiss, until it developed into something more fervent, more desperate. After minutes of tasting one another, America swung his legs up so that he was straddling England’s hips, and the older dragon ran his pointed nails appreciatively down Alfred’s bare thighs. They had fought against each other centuries ago, now they fought alongside each other, but before all that, before the madness, they had loved each other, and now, they were to rekindle it.

Alfred slipped his hands into England’s uniform, rubbing his back, scratching with his nails. The older dragon, likewise, began unbuttoning the top of his green uniform, until he had shrugged it off, revealing his pale, human skin. He gasped when America dipped his head down and began to lick along his collarbone. The man raised his hands to grasp at America’s horns, feeling the smooth, hardness of the curve.

America went lower, until he had reached England’s waist. He stuck out his tongue and began trace underneath England’s abdomen, right above where his belt was affixed. The younger dragon then suddenly dropped his head lower to nuzzle at his-

_Bloody hell._

England panted in turn, and America let out a pleased hum, mouthing the tent of his pants.

“Cheeky thing,” remarked Arthur, and then with a dexterity all his own, he grasped America’s shoulders, rolled him over, and pinned him down to the bed, crawling on top of the younger dragon. Alfred smiled softly, as his still reddened eyes looked into England’s green. The boy looked emotionally worn, but England could feel that below, he was…very excited.

England kissed his nose, and then, quickly rid himself of his trousers until he was bare as America. He gave a gentle thrust downwards, eliciting a gasp from the boy, then began to card his fingers through Alfred’s hair. The younger let out a hum of approval, allowing England to simply comfort him as he liked best. But he did not spend long there…not when there was much, much more to enjoy. England’s lips moved southwards, placing soft kisses and firm bites down Alfred’s smooth skin as he drew closer and closer to his target. America moaned and raised his hips, thrusting up. England put a firm hand on his hip to keep him positioned down, and then….

England mouthed the boy’s length, relaxing his throat as he surged down, until he had encompassed the whole thing in his throat, effortlessly. _That was an advantage of being a dragon,_ he supposed. He continued this vigorous action, moving up and down, increasing his speed. He flicked his green eyes up so he could watch America pant, moan, beg, plead, and call his name repeatedly:

“Ah…ah… Oh God, E-engl...Arthur….YES!”

He didn’t last long. A salty taste greeted his mouth, but England held firm, swallowing as he allowed Alfred several finishing thrusts into his warm mouth. Once the surge had ended, the older dragon gave a smirk, pulling his head up and giving America’s thigh a gentle bite.

America was staring at him again, and the blue-eyed dragon rocked his hips, “Inside me…” he whispered, breathlessly.

England didn’t have to be asked twice. He reached over to his discarded trousers, and pulled out…

“Is that honey?” Alfred said, blinking.

“I use it in tea,” England said, shrugging. “It’s better than nothing.”

“Man, I hate to waste that, it’d go really well on my toas-aaahhh!” America threw his head back as England pressed a finger into him, followed by a second, and finally, a third. The older nation stretched Alfred for several minutes, utilizing the golden, sticky liquid as best he could. Finally, when it was said and done, England lined himself up, and cast an expectant gaze to America. Alfred, giving an intake of breath, nodded his head.

Then Arthur thrust himself to the hilt, impaling his beloved America.

“Oh…Oh.” England said, the warmth, the tightness, the fact it was… “Oh heavens….” He dropped his hand down to tug at Alfred’s spent length, willing it back to hardness. He dearly wanted to start thrusting wantonly into America, but…. “M-may I…?”

Alfred let out a breathy moan, giving him a heady look. He rolled his hips in answer, uttering, “You don’t have to be gentle, Arthur, we used to do this all the time….” The two paused in mid motion, England staring down, a flood of emotions overtaking him. Predominately regret for his past actions when it came to America. He had been so young. “I….” England began to back up, but America’s legs snaked around him, and brought him down, further inside that warm heat, with his chest to lay on top of Alfred. The younger dragon encircled his arms around England, as to hold him in a close embrace.

“I know…what we did then…nnngh!” America groaned, as England gave an involuntary thrust, “M-might not be…our finest moments. B-but…. I don’t regret any part. Not for a minute.”

“Oh… America….” England sighed, resuming to piston his hips to thrust downwards, “You are too….” But he couldn’t finish. _Naïve?_ _Forgiving? Loving? Kind? Human?_

His pace increased, and after a few testing thrusts did he find the right spot. America let out a gasp, and England’s combined thrusting of that one spot, and Alfred’s continued squeezing, brough both England to a shuddering climax, with America’s second alongside him. Instinct charged, he dropped his mouth and slammed his fangs into Alfred’s throat, onto his mark, which elicited him a mewl from Alfred. As he blinked himself out of his draconic stupor did he realize America was hugging him, tilting his head away to allow him his death grip. _You like this?_ he thought.

Releasing him, Arthur flopped down on the boy, in exhaustion. Emotionally and physically he was spent. So much so that he was a limp rag doll to Alfred, who moved him, python-like, into his embrace. Then, reminiscent of when he was young, he pressed close to England, pressing a kiss to his nose, and then his mouth, and buried himself into Arthur’s waiting arms.

The two basked together, United, as a Kingdom and States.

_It sure was hot in New Mexico_ , America thought to himself, shifting on his foot as he waited outside the building. He had been briefly summoned back to his own soil in urgency from the European front. The entire journey back, he had felt constant guilt at leaving Arthur behind to fend for himself. But the message he had received had insisted that the tide of the war could be impacted by his presence.

How could this be?

America stood, motionlessly, as an official-looking man approached him.

“We have not been as successful as we’d like with our nuclear tests…” the man said, by way of greeting. Alfred inspected his name tag, which read _, J. Oppenheimer._

“I see,” America said, not really seeing. The man shifted, looking uncomfortable. “We are running out of time, and we fear the war may prolong without a hasty solution. But our nuclear tests have not been the only experiments we have been running out here, Mr. Jones." (America preened at being addressed by his human name) "In fact, we have been conducting side experiments…using your DNA.”

“Excuse me?” America said, his goodwill fleeing, “My goddamn DNA? Without my permission?”

“America,” Oppenheimer said, his flat voice tinging with annoyance, “You belong to the government, contrary to what you might believe. Yes, your blood was taken early in the war, with your consent. I’m sure it was a blur, sir, but you must listen. What was our side project has become our main effort. We couldn’t create a nuclear bomb in time. However, we have been successfully able to fuse your DNA with our nuclear energy. With plutonium.”

“Come again?” America said.

Oppenheimer didn’t mince with words. “We can upgrade you, America. Give you an edge on the battlefield to which no nation will be able withstand. Simply put, we can make you a superpower among dragons and men alike.” America, despite his misgivings, was liking the sound of this. But a small voice, (suspiciously sounding like England) made him ask: “What’s the catch?”

“Well, for starters, there’s no guarantee it will work. That’s for one. But the other….” Oppenheimer frowned. “Might give you a side effect.”

“Like what.” Alfred said, returning the frown.

“It might make you more aggressive.” Oppenheimer answered, shrugging.

“That’s it?” America responded, raising an eyebrow. “That’s all?” That didn’t seem earth shattering.

“To what we know, that’s all.”

“No crippling bone disease, glowing in the dark from radiation, seizures, insanity…I did read some of the reports on the way here, you know.” Alfred said petulantly.

“I would hope so,” retorted Oppenheimer. “We theorize with the plutonium exposure it might raise your testosterone levels, giving you heightened aggression. But since you dragons are warmongers to begin with, I suppose it would be a benefit to you?” America’s face pulled into a frown. Once again humans were making assumptions about dragons. This irked him more than the thought of his DNA being experimented on. “And if I refuse?”

“You would sacrifice our efforts. And perhaps, millions more Americans may die. Maybe the United Kingdom will fall. I’m sure you can use your imagination.” Oppenheimer let the last threat drop, watching America’s face shrewdly.

America stared at his feet.

“I am commit to my higher purpose,” the boy finally said, in resolution. If he could save others… he would do what his people asked of him. Of what he would ask himself.

_If I can end this war to end all wars…_

They led him in a chamber, an assortment of scientists studying him in gathered interest from their position above the sunken room. Below, a chair that loomed with many straps, reminiscent of a chair in an insane asylum. America observed the sterile white walls, devoid of color, pristine as the day this facility had been built. How many nuclear tests had been run here, for years? Tests shrouded in secrecy… for all their efforts to instead to enhancing a dragon. America wondered, in another world, if what it would have been like had they been successful. They would have held in their hands the capability to destroy nations. Instead, they were giving this power to America.

America was strapped into a chair. This made him exceptionally nervous-with the number of buckles that were lashed onto him. It was true, he was strong, and yet…why so many? A female scientist with wide rimmed glasses looked at his own as she stood nearby. “You wear glasses?” she asked, curiously. “A dragon?”

“For show,” he said, with a half-shrug from where he was tied down. Another scientist near the woman rolled up the sleeve of America’s uniform, exposing his tanned arm to the chilled air of the laboratory. “I see. You might want to keep them,” she answered, cryptically. She removed them from his face, and placed them in a pocket over her breast.

“Do…any of the other nations know of this? What we are trying to do?” America asked, a nervous tic in his voice. Nobody answered him.

Oppenheimer loomed above the gathered scientists; dark eyes boring into America’s blue. “Proceed with the first injection.”

A red-headed human appeared to America’s left, and without a word, held up a syringe. The solution inside looked purple…like Russia’s eyes. America’s heart began to pound suddenly. Something in his heart told him…. _this is wrong._ “Wait…” he said, mouth going dry.

But it was too late. For no sooner had he had uttered that word, did the needle slide in. It didn’t hurt, and within seconds, it had been fully injected. America swallowed his fear. “The second,” responded Oppenheimer, his flat voice echoing in the silence of the chamber. This process was repeated two more times, and America began to break out into a sweat from his nervousness. He didn’t feel any different. Was he supposed to be all powerful now?

Oppenheimer was frowning. “Give him a fifth.” A scientist nearby gave a gasp, others looks of dismay. “Sir, that might kill him-“

“He’s a nation. He won’t die. Give him another.”

America shook his head. “It’s not working, doc, just let- ow!” the final injection hurt- hurt far worse than the others had. America then noticed his left arm was red- red like his dragon form. But he hadn’t tried transforming.

But then, something was pulsing through his blood. His heart was pounding, pounding faster, and he gasped violently, throwing his head back. His horns stuck into the chair as his breaths became more labored. His chest felt like it was going to explode, and the room swirled with colors. Faster the room spun, and he could see hues of colors that he didn’t even know exist flash in his vision.

“He is going into cardiac arrest!“ a panicked voice cut into his thoughts.

“Come on America!” Oppenheimer’s voice resounded, “Focus! Overcome!”

America felt like throwing up, and that’s exactly what he did. He lunged forward in his straps; mouth pointed to the ground. But it wasn’t bile that came up: glowing liquid, like gold, spattered onto the ground. It smoked like fire, smelling of chemical and sulfur. His eyes felt like they were burning in their sockets, and he fell limply forward, gasping as he felt his fangs extend from his gums, lengthening in his mouth.

His mind began to focus, a sharpness in him, a clarity to his thoughts. His whole body was humming with power, like electricity in his veins. He had thought all those years ago a mere mating dance had brought him life. It was nothing compared to this! His queasiness faded, and he began to feel his heart return to a normal, if heightened, rhythm. His eyes opened, and he could feel the gaze of the scientists. Alfred looked up to them, silently meeting their gaze from where he hung in the straps. In confusion, he noticed their eyes slid from his own, almost as if in...fear?

_What did they see?_

But then, Oppenheimer was in front of him, having taken his chin in his hand, and was staring at him, unafraid. Several attendants were unbuckling America now, and he wobbled to his feet, chin still held by the lead scientist to bring him back to his full height. The tall, thin man leaned over America, tapping long fingers against the nation’s temple.

“Am I a hero now?” rasped America, his voice almost a hiss. A smile greeted him in response. Oppenheimer leaned in close, and then whispered into his red fin ear exactly what he was.

Despite the furious winds, there was nothing but silence in America’s mind.

The dragon flew silently over the sea, the waves of the Pacific lashing against the coast of Japan as he made landfall. The miles were nothing to him: wings tapping an unforgiving rhythm in the cover of darkness, his breaths hisses in the dark. Sooner than even he expected did he arrive to his target, and began to ascend higher above the shining lights. Grim was his task. As he hovered over Hiroshima, the night sky provided the red peril the cover he needed to undergo this final task. When the dragon had gained enough altitude did he open his jaws, fangs dripping with saliva and menace as an eerie hum began reverberating in his throat. The sound was deafening in the quiet of the early morning. Golden energy glowed from his chest and traveled upwards through to his jaws, making him a beacon in the sky. He lowered his great head, expanding his mouth further as he pointed down at the city.

With another peculiar hum and a burst of dazzling light, did the dragon America breathe down nuclear energy into the city. In a golden beam the energy surged downwards into Hiroshima, the golden light erupting buildings, as all living things below evaporated into nothingness. When seconds of bathing the Japanese city in the golden light of nuclear power had passed, a mushroom cloud hovered over the destruction, visible for miles on end. America swept over the city, dark intent driving his wingbeats. Oppenheimer’s words to him from the lab repeated in his mind, as America flew on, to wreak doom upon the sister city of Nagasaki.

_You have become Death… the Destroyer of Worlds._


	8. Alfred's Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Non-Con

1946

England drummed his pointed fingernails on the wooden desk, feeling more and more a sense of trepidation as the morning wore on without any sign of America. Here, the Allied Powers were once again meeting in Paris, France. This time, they were here to continue the ongoing process of the Peace Conference which would determine the treaties signed with the defeated Axis Powers. Yet days had gone by without sign of Alfred, who was a pivotal role as one of the predominant Allied Powers. Arthur had not seen the young dragon since he had returned to his home country and undergone (England shuddered in thought) _experiments_ that had given him, according to reports, ungodly powers. This was only hearsay...and truly it was speculation to whether Alfred’s power derived from a higher power. But the pictures released of Hiroshima and Nagasaki didn’t lie. And the fact that kind of destruction had been wielded by a single dragon….

Granted, England did not find fault in America. Perhaps the boy was blinded by his need to prove himself, and the anger he had felt at Japan. But as vicious as the attacks had been, they had caused the final surrender of the Japanese forces, and brought peace in the Pacific.

 _Or did it_? A small, sneering voice asked in his mind. Reports were coming about unrest in other areas of Asia….England’s head began to hurt thinking about it. As much as he enjoyed proving his mettle, two world wars had stretched him thin. He wondered to himself how he could continue to keep the world under his claw when his forces had been spread so thin. His green eye caught France’s blue one, and the two former rivals turned allies gave each other measured glances from where they sat across the table. England could almost read his mind. _Focus,_ the French dragon seemed to say without words. They each had their respective parties to represent, and terms that would benefit them…and ideally, restore the former Axis powers to at least decently functioning countries.

 _As decent as I’ll allow them_ , England allowed himself a small snarl, his ambitions of Empire still forefront of his thinking. He couldn’t help but watch North Italy slightly duck under the desk at the sight of his gleaming fanged teeth. This made the English dragon feel a little bit better.

But just as England stopped worrying about when America would appear, did he finally do so. Well, England assumed it was him. He was at a distance from the opened door, and the hallway was darkened, which didn’t allow much guessing. It could’ve been Canada. He was here too, after all. But the strides approaching the busy conference room screamed of an arrogance that Canada simply did not display. The other dragons, sensing the presence of the American dragon, fell silent, the anticipation in the room increasing. All were quiet, except the Soviet Union, who looked unamused at America’s audacity as the young dragon stopped just shy of the door, the shadows of the hallway covering the expression on his face.

“You have kept us waiting for days, America.” Russia said, dislike tinging his voice. “Stop your foolish posturing and enter. Do not continue to waste our time.” But then he fell silent, looking disturbed. Russia looked away, as America’s head briefly tilted down, as if considering Russia’s words. Then the boy took another step closer in, exposing his face. And then, England and the rest of them saw exactly what the shadows were no longer able to hide. It was Hungary that brought up what a group of predominately male dragons were too fearful to address- “America, what has happened to your eyes!?”

America stepped into the artificially lit room, his head tilted up at a slight angle, a slight sneer on his face. His spectacles were pushed close to his face, almost if trying to hide exactly what the girl had brought up. But it was too evident, and too inhuman behind the metal frames to not see what they all saw.

His eyes were yellow. Yellow- the eyes of a jackal, the blues of his youth having fled them completely. The pupils remained slitted, and so now, ironically, America looked more draconic than the assembled dragons in the room. And yet the expression on his face… England felt a twinge of fear run down his back. Fear for the likes of the defeated former Axis powers assembled. The young America of blue eyes and a winning smile wouldn’t wreak destruction down on a beaten nation. But this version, yellow eyes, and a haughty stare… England simply didn’t know what his objectives were.

 _I am reading far too much into this_ , England chastised himself as America walked himself to the front of the room where a tall podium rested. _America hasn’t changed, it’s simply a side-effect and nothing more. He is my ally, and he’s alone more than ever. And now his eyes have altered… he’ll feel ostracized._

Pity swelled in England’s breast as the gathered nations began to feel braver at Hungary’s outburst. They pelted America with more questions. The Italian brothers questioned America’s motives, France interjected that the young dragon was to be probed on his use of excessive force, with Russia insinuating that America’s eyes revealed what he was all along. The boy’s expression became darker and darker, until finally he snapped.

“SILENCE!” thundered the blonde. Everyone’s mouths snapped shut.

“I don’t want to hear another goddamn question about my eyes. Get used to it.” America waved out a hand, tipped nails pointed towards his palm. “Moving along. Borders are to be redrawn from the following present nations: Italy, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, and Finland.” More noises arose from the assembled countries, but America’s wicked look silenced them. “ I don’t care if you all decide to take daggers and lop arms off to fairly distribute territory. I’m not staying here very long, and y’all are going to figure this out. Now.”

“This is fair.” Russia said, with barely contained glee, “I shall be quite interested in helping to establish these borders, da? But you really shouldn’t concern yourself, America. You have so many more… _pressing_ problems.”

“But see, that’s just the thing!” America said, his voice matching Russia’s elated tone, “Every fucking time I don’t involve myself, some war breaks out. And you know? I’m thinking I really ought to care a lot more. I’m drawing the lines now. Besides, who else is left to do it? England’s got too much on his plate these days.” Arthur bristled at the implied slight, raising his voice testily, “I have been running my Empire and its global affairs for several centuries _boy_.“

“Perhaps before!” America interrupted cheerfully, smile not quite meeting his eyes, “But you know what they say: you can live in the new world, or die in the old one!”

“Why you-!” England rose to his feet, goodwill and pity having fled him, “What kind of nation insults his allies?”

“The one that’s going to tell you how things run from now on.” Now America’s smile had left, and something sinister had replaced it. “They might call this a peace conference, but I’m going to tell you fucking monsters exactly what this is: The ‘Fuck with me and you’re going to die conference’.”

“So bold, America.” Russia scoffed, his uniform’s medals glinting as he leaned forward in his seat, “You think you’re the only threat in the room?”

“No,” America replied, tapping his pointed nails against his glasses, yellow eyes slitting in malice, “But you better believe I’m going to make sure that I am.”

1953

“Fuck Korea, Fuck the Reds, Fuck this nonsense, why can’t I obliterate them all?” America raged, sitting on his hands at the large chair at the prominent table, his yellow eyes flashing with anger. The young dragon and his former colonizer were awaiting the arrival of the Soviet Union, China, and the so proclaimed “North Korea” to discuss the drawing of the Demilitarized Zone. God knew where South Korea was. If England was to make bets, he was likely committing indecency with France in a nearby closet. France, of all dragons, whom the Asian nation had become besotted with.

 _Knowing that idiot, he’s probably encouraging him_ , thought Arthur, scowling. _Speaking of undesirables…_

America was making good on his promise to be a global threat, England observed, watching as the younger nation rocked back and forth in his seat, reminiscent of a cobra awaiting to strike. The two present nations were close: nobody argued that the Special Relationship was anything but, but personally, dragon to dragon, England felt thousands of miles apart. America was constantly paranoid, to the point that he had been caught on several occasions going through his fellow allies’ correspondences, claiming any one of them could be a communist sympathizer.

 _This obsession with Russia is unhealthy,_ England mused. They called it the “Red Scare” and with good reason: England was convinced this show of aggression stemmed from that fact that America was scared. Constantly scared. But Arthur wouldn’t dare mention it to Alfred’s face, lest it be torn off.

“They are doing this on purpose,” America hissed, “Keeping me here waiting. Fucking Communists. The shit they pulled in the Chosin Reservoir…they’re lucky I don’t skin for dragonhide as soon as they walk in the room.”

“I was there too, America.” England reminded him wearily. “I have as much grief with them as do you. Try to maintain your composure.”

“I know you were fucking there!” snapped the red-horned menace, “And you’re not my superior, not anymore!”

“Still bringing that up?” England grumbled, feeling Alfred’s comment was entirely unnecessary.

America opened his mouth to insult England, but before he had uttered a word, in entered the three interested parties: China, Russia, and North Korea. China and Russia were dressed in their military uniforms, China’s brown antler-like horns looked weathered and worn, while Russia’s curved horns seemed dull in the artificial light. North Korea, a grimmer-looking counterpart than South Korea, shot America a particularly nasty look, which was met with a flipped middle finger as a response. The shorter dragon lunged forward, his brown eyes flashing with malice, but he was held back by China. The eldest nation gripped the other Asian nation’s arm, pointed nails digging into his clothing. The Soviet Union, purple eyes slitting in suppressed annoyance, couldn’t resist baiting the brash Western nation.

“He is really not worth the effort.” Russia said, loud enough to insult America, who slapped his hands down and bared his teeth in response. England gripped a hand on America’s shoulder, who in turn smacked it off.

“Are we quite done?” The island nation said, shooting everyone a pointed glance. China met his gaze, and the ancient nations regarded each other with mutual respect and dislike. They had warred, they had a history, but at least they could show decency, unlike the other three present, apparently.

“Agreed.” China said in a clipped tone, “Our time is short. This is the map we have drawn out for the division of Korea. The capitol of Seoul will lay just north of the border of North and South Korea.“ The black-haired dragon drew forth a map, which had a clear line painted south of the capital of Seoul, dividing the two Koreas. He slid it across the table to the western dragons, who stared at it. England cleared his throat.

“Nope.” America replied, yellow eyes narrowing. “Not going to fucking happen.”

“Excuse me?” replied China, a twitch in his eye. His good temper, England sensed, was quickly waning. “Alfred…” Arthur said, warningly, under his breath. The English dragon was wishing to end the current hostilities, not prolong the war another dozen years because of America’s need to always be right.

Naturally, America didn’t listen. “See, I drew a map too. Well, that’s a lie. Some of my guys did it for me. Good guys, you know? I like my troops. They know what’s up. They know where to go, what to do. Unlike your guys. They seem to do their own fucking thing. Like that shit you tried pulling out there in the snow?” America’s face was getting darker and darker, as his eyes flashed with contempt, “Couldn’t fucking stay out- neither you nor Russia. No goddamn business here.”

“No more than you,” Russia snarled, “No one asked for your intervention in Asian affairs, you capitalist pig.“

“Fuck off Commie. Anyway, this is my proposed- nah- this is what I’m telling you. Division along the 38th parallel.” America slid out a new map, placing it tellingly above China’s map, “-is where we are dividing the map. Seoul belongs to the Republic of Korea. If you don’t like it, that’s fine. Me and England would be more than happy to continue flaming you out of the sky. Send us more humans to burn. We really don’t care.” America gave them all a petrifying grin, all teeth and no lips.

England blanched, hissing so that only America could hear, “My cooperation with you is near its end, boy!” America’s yellow eyes rolled up to meet his green, and England felt his gaze cast off. He could never hold eye contact with those putrid yellow for too long.

The three opposing nations gave America a measured look, but to England’s surprise, they shuffled and re-convened at the far side of the room, throwing glances at the young dragon. America, in turn leaned back in his chair if this type of discussion was about a sporting event, rather than decision debating the fate of the Korean War. When as soon England felt he could no longer take the anticipation, did the three stop their conversation, and turn to face the two.

“Unfortunately for you two, we do not hold the power to make this type of decision.” China said, in a measured response, “We will confer with our humans to whether or not the 38th parallel would be suitable.” England nodded in understanding. Dragons did not make choices- they were the servants, not the masters.

“Unlike you, America…” China said, softly. “We do not wish for endless war.”

America snorted, giving them all contemptuous looks, “Sounds like you all have to run back to your dear leaders’ boots to make a decision. Do let me know how that goes.” England stomped on his foot, patience worn thin with America’s continued arrogance, “Argh!” the dragon bit out.

“This isn’t over, America.” Russia replied, a quiet threat behind his words, “Someone will put you in your place. Mark my words.”

America glared behind his spectacles in response, his yellow eyes staring into the purple of the Soviet Union’s. Minutes passed in silence, where England helplessly fretted that the wrong move would send them all back to the Stone Age. But once again, peace somehow won out. Some mutual thought must have passed between them, because then Russia threw his head forward, and stalked out of the room, not giving America a second glance. North Korea and China followed quietly behind, with the youngest Asian dragon shooting America another deadly glance as he slunk out of the room.

Not sensing America’ darkening mood, England rounded on his ally. “Are you daft?! Or just gone bloody mad?? We have been fighting in more hell-holes than I care to admit over the past god-awful decade, and you want to prolong war?!”

“Are you suggesting breaking our alliance?” America hissed, England feeling a jolt of surprise as he saw America’s dark stare leveled at him. “That’s treasonous talk… coming from _you_.”

Instead of the natural thing, which would be to try to calm the situation, England found himself ramping it up, pent up anger and frustration fueling his words, “You offend me. You contradict everything we’ve worked for, together! Making threats against countries who just want peace! You want to keep fighting these horrid wars? Wasn’t two World Wars enough?!”

“Oh that’s rich…” snarled America, “you begged for my help! Don’t act like I flew in to fight!”

“I stood alone against evil,” England yelled, “What would you expect anyone to do in that situation? Let my people die!?”

“Yeah, well maybe they should’ve, if you are willing to negotiate with the likes of those three!” America snapped.

“I want peace!”

America’s eyes were a vicious yellow in the light of the room: “You want me to lose!”

“I want no such thing!” England roared. “Stop putting words in my mouth!”

“You want me to fail! You always have!” America shrieked, leaping to his feet and pointing a clawed finger at the other dragon. “Don’t deny it!”

England was riled beyond the point of common sense. Looking back, he reflected it was very fortunate he survived what he said next, “Perhaps you deserve to fail!” England meant none of it, but he was tired of America’s paranoia, his biting words, his belittling of England. Where was the dragon he had mated with, the nation who had flown at his side? America was nothing but a shell of his former self!

WHUMPF!

England was suddenly pinned against the table, America on top of him. He yelped in surprise, anger fleeing him as he trapped under the taller dragon’s weight. The tall dragon was heavy compared to him, and he squirmed, attempting to free himself- “Why you…get off me, you oaf!!”

America stared down at him, eyes wild. “You know what’s funny, England? You want me to fail. You want me to lose. But I’m so much more powerful than you are now. Your Empire is crumbling around you. I see it. It’s time for a new dawn…it’s time for the sun to never set on _me_.”

England thrashed, but America held him down, sneering, “I’ve always given to you, all these years. Maybe now it’s time I take from you instead.” America’s teeth pulled into the lipless smile he had shown earlier, “I wonder what it’s like to be on top of the world...”

England’s heart began to pound in his breast, the implication of America’s words dawning on him.

“I do not-no. Not like this.” England said, feeling horror.

“Oh, it’s fine when you do it to others, but it can’t happen to you?” America reached with one hand to Arthur’s neck, holding him down. The other hand went underneath his starched top, tipped fingers running against prominent ribs. It wasn’t pleasant, and England showed his teeth, the intruding nails digging into his flesh, causing an aching pain.

“America, please, do not do this.” England whispered, dread coiling within him.

“Lie back and think of me, isn’t that what they told your women? Oh wait, that was you they were talking about. Always about you.” America ripped England’s shirt open, exposing his pale sternum. “Makes me sick.” The taller dragon extended his tongue and bent down, the inhumanly long muscle tracing a trail on Arthur’s sternum.

“America…Alfred, reconsider this. I am your ally. Do not do something you will regret. Do not do this to-“

“THIS IS WHAT YOU DID TO ME!” America screamed, jerking his head away from England.

“I thought…” America’s yellow eyes bore him no pity, and England quieted, feeling his guilt and past regrets swelling within him. 

_Perhaps I deserve this._

He did not resist as America continued, removing more of his clothing and extended his tongue back to his neck. Arthur felt a solitary tear drop down from his green eye as America cast aside his slacks. Soon he was bare, and America was shrugging off his brown jacket, and shook off his own pants. England remained against the table, America no longer holding him down, but still paralyzed all the same.

“I am sorry.” England said quietly. The yellow eyes narrowed at him, but he was met with silence. America licked two of his fingers, and without further ado, had shoved them into England. It hurt- without the initial preparation and apprehension he was feeling, England felt nothing but pain, and let out a howl of agony.

“Shut up!” But the pain increased, as America scissored him roughly, and England knew then the wetness inside him was now blood. America was not gentle, and not for the first time in his life did England wonder if America had ever actually been the leading dragon. Despite his bravado, some dragons were more interested in receiving than- America shoved in, and England was completely unprepared. It had been many years since England had been on the receiving end, but even France hadn’t made it as awful as America was doing now. England was clenching too much, and the smaller nation could sense America wasn’t really enjoying it either. It couldn’t have been pleasant- England was tight and tense, and America too inexperienced to even begin to know how to prepare or please a partner. But as America continued to thrust, England came to a dull, pained conclusion about the entirety of the situation: this wasn’t about sex.

“You…are not… well, America...” England said though pained gasps.

“Shut…up!” America retorted with a vicious thrust, and then stopped. America bowed his head, shaking. England bit his lip. It almost felt worse that America was not moving. Alfred shuddered, still motionless, and Arthur could see his pain reflected in those yellow jackal eyes. And then he understood.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” England said quietly. “You can feel my pain. Through my mark.”

“You marked me as a way to control me!” America snapped his hips forward, which England let out another cry of pain.

“I… gave…it to you so we would never be apart.” England whispered.

America froze. The frenzied thrusts ended, and for the first time, he looked down, as if to truly to see what he had done. Alfred shuddered again, looking to England, then looking at himself, almost as if in indecision as to whether to continue. America slowly pulled out, to which England gave off a grunt of pain. It no longer hurt as fiercely, but there were still remnants of blood. America half-stepped away, staring off.

“Do you know who your enemy is, anymore?” Arthur asked and reached out a hand as if to touch America’s cheek, but then dropped it. Pity for the boy was dropping in his breast- replaced with a dull resignation. England had wronged America: but past deeds were no justification for what America had just done.

America did not answer. Instead he moved and retrieved their clothing, tossing England’s to him, and refitting himself in his own. The two dragons silently redressed, and stared at each other. England unfortunately had to have the last word.

“Consider this war with you my last.”

1975

The dragon stood alone watching the red dawn approach over the jungle in a dreamy, miraculous haze. Somehow out of all the places he had been, he enjoyed the primal nature of the sticky wet that Vietnam. He supposed it had to do with his reptile nature: if scholars were to be believed, their kind had come from the same stock as the dinosaurs, who had ruled millions of years in this kind of climate.

 _But they died out... and I shall live forever,_ America thought smugly.

He was alone, but not for long: in this humid jungle, it was a constant barrage of sights and smells, allies and enemies alike constantly colliding, conflicting; dodging mines and deadly attacks, making a confusion of chemicals and chaos. Despite his great strength in his dragon form, he had fought this war mostly in human guise. There was something satisfying in it: taking tipped nails and driving them point blank into the guts of these soulless Viet Cong fighters gave him a satisfaction like no other. They deserved it, every last one of them.

 _What can a bunch of farmers do?_ America had scoffed, early on in the war. But they had taught him well: twice he had fallen into their traps, snares originally made for killing tigers. These traps were tipped with wooden spears in a densely covered, deep pit, pointed upwards for any GI to unwittingly step on and meet their grisly end. He had seen it happen several times to his men, their eyes pleading for a quick death as they were skewered on these bamboo poles. America had been in agony on when meeting this fate on patrol, and had transformed both times when he had fallen in: incinerating the surrounding jungle in his true form, fury at this underhanded tactic these _farmers_ had used. Had he been human, he would have died.

How dare these Vietnamese do this to his people, _to him_?

But the war was soon to finish. Public opinion, (to which Alfred did not give two flying fucks about) was changing about the war. According to the fickle media, the American people were against the war, and in greater numbers. There was demand that the United States withdraw.

“Evacuate in our moment of triumph!?” America had spat, consulting his generals.

“We either win Hanoi, or it all falls,” came the tired response, “Not even your dragon strength can change the minds of our politicians, America. Elections are coming, and people are tired of constant war. We aren’t losing, but we aren’t winning. And the Viet Cong know this.”

And it was the matter of Vietnam the dragon as well. America had been disgusted to learn that the girl had pledged her allegiance to the Communist regime, rather than the valiant South Vietnamese. America had tried to persuade her otherwise, but she had spat in his face, reminiscent of when he had tried to convince North Korea to join his side.

 _“You’ll pay for this insult!”_ America had screamed at her, but he hadn’t made good on his promise. She was as elusive as the side she served. But someone was going to pay for all of this. And who better than the instigator, the one pulling all the strings?

Yes, Russia, Russia the dragon was here! By all rights he should not be present. The stoic nation behind the Iron Curtain had maintained distance throughout the war. While giving obvious support, no troops had been deployed by the Soviet Union. North Vietnam had stood against the superior American forces on feet of their own. But whether Vietnam had begged, or perhaps Moscow had reconsidered, Russia was presently flying patterns through Hanoi, making further south, closer and closer to Saigon where America was headquartered. This presented a unique opportunity that neither him nor his military could resist.

“If you were to defeat Russia in aerial combat… this could drive a psychological blow against the Reds; and halt spread of Communism around the world. Cuba, China, Vietnam, Korea, the nations under the Soviet Union… all of these nations will be watching. Hell, the UN’ll be watching.”

And so, a hasty plan had been erected.

The Hueycobras, effigies of dragons painted alongside their dull green hull, began to whir to life in the airfield as America strode through it, the wind tossing his wheat-gold hair, red horns rising from the short locks. His spectacles, useless in correcting vision as they were, were carefully removed, and folded into a pocket to keep them safe. He had worn them for so long they were almost a comfort: and yet, as the years went by, he wondered to himself if he was wearing them more as a means to hide his eyes. Yes, his eyes. He had not fault with them. Ever since 1945 the sky blue he had been so accustomed to had fled in the aftereffects of radiation. But he could not abide the aversion he met from everyone, dragon or human. No one could keep his gaze: and it did bother him. Yellow was truly not the vile color that red was. He couldn’t help his color. Red: once the symbol of the British Empire, and now a walking billboard for the color of communism.

Alfred _was_ ostracized.

But he had not the time for self-pity. The day of reckoning with Russia had come. His choppers would provide escort in the off chance the Soviet Union was laying a trap. The two dragons would finally battle above the skies of Vietnam, and a favorable outcome for America could turn the tide of the war. America must be stronger. The Soviets, according to intelligence intercepted, had not yet been successful in their experiments on the silver dragon. They furiously tried to recreate the transferal of power the Americans had done to their nation in Nevada, but contrary to their propaganda, had not been successful. Or was it all a ruse? Neither US intelligence nor America would put it past the Reds to lie. Perhaps they had been successful, and Russia’s presence was a means to test this power against his young rival. Why else would the dragon be here?

And so the solution was to strike: strike at Russia, and fell the beast, before the beast felled him.

America stretched in his green uniform, near identical to the combat uniform of a US Soldier, with the exception of an embroidered patch of a dragon’s skull on his left arm, with yellow eyes, blowing flames down his arm. One of the troops had it made for him in a little shop in Saigon. The very next day, the man had tripped on a landmine.

The birds began to rise into the air, an escort impressive in the rising morning sky. America began to shift forms, mere seconds passing until he too rose up, the sun shining down on him as his splendid scarlet colors absorbed the warmth of the sun’s rays. His wings beating out as the smaller choppers hovered flew alongside, giving him plenty of room in the air. They flew northwards along the coast, the whir of the blades a loud hum, causing the palms below to sway as they flew overhead. America could see the local populace go about their morning, having become accustomed to the presence of the helicopters. Only a few made note of the silent beast flying center of the formation, pointing up into the sky from where they stood below.

Later, when this was all over, historians would mark the place these two behemoths met was over the skies of Da Nang. It wasn’t a long journey for America, and it certainly was for Russia. Perhaps this was what determined the outcome of the morning?

The Americans spied the large silver dragon soaring along the coastline. He wasn’t alone either: a smaller, slenderer dragon was flying alongside him, which made America’s blood boil. The closeness between the two suggested a pairing, and this irritated America far more than it should. He roared in anger, throwing off the element of surprise of his presence. The silver dragon jerked in the air, and the smaller tan dragon let out a call of her own. But Vietnam was the first to strike. Seeing the attack choppers, she lunged in the air at one, colliding in the sky with a vicious attack, claws extended and digging into the metal hull of the flying weapon. The bird began to falter, and the others began to riddle her with bullets, and she screamed, tearing fuselage and oil leaking in the air as her blood began to spatter the windows of the Huey.

Russia roared in fury, barreling at another bird to stop the onslaught. But America would not allow this. He hurtled himself in the air, and clasped the Soviet’s shoulders and neck beneath his claws, driving him away from the Hueys. America felt their bullets began to pierce his own hide as he got between the firing and Russia, and he screeched in agony, unable to avoid friendly fire. But his men were observant: America suddenly heard the firing die down, as they pulled higher into the sky, to once again tangle with the smaller Vietnam, who was left to stand on her own under their firepower.

Her mate, Russia, was very much occupied. America was relentless in his onslaught, tearing his claws into the larger male’s scales, biting with a mad fury. The silver dragon turned his head upwards, and likewise snapped his jaws onto America’s wing, attempting to pull the young dragon down from the sky. The two danced in a circle, releasing their jaws and biting down further, madly attempting to stay airborne, and faltering as the choppers danced around them, as Vietnam continued to scream in pain. Their underbellies were unwillingly exposed as they attempted to pull away from each other, but they would not release their clenched teeth from each other’s bodies. It was a horrible parody of the mating flight they had done all those years ago, and this was not lost on either of them. Russia’s purple eyes locked into America’s yellow, the stare a thousand years old.

 _Are you truly that lost to do this?_ came the question. _I thought you loved me?_

America hesitated, and Russia ensued. The larger dragon kicked out with his legs and knocked America downwards, the red dragon’s injuries preventing him from effectively opening his wings quickly enough to avoid colliding with the jungle below. The red dragon floundered in the trees as Russia let out a roar of triumph above, Vietnam echoing this as she likewise tossed a bird to the ground in a fiery crash. The two dragons began cavorting above, as the American choppers pelted away, as the two dragons teamed up to decimate them in the sky.

The red dragon was _furious._ Russia had been right. Admitting his love had been a weakness. The youngest dragon shook himself to his feet, staring above as he watched the two dragons fly in patterns across the late morning sky, the American fighters putting up a valiant fight, as fruitless as it was. America snarled as his throat began to glow with a tell-tale golden light from below, as he stretched out his legs to give himself leverage on the ground. Fuck these Commies. They deserved this.

America pointed his opened mouth, and focused. The glow brightened, and he targeted Russia. There were no more choppers to worry about. Only Russia. The Soviet paused in the air, as a dawning realization came upon him. He roared in fright now, looking to Vietnam to escape.

It was the only thing that saved her, for it was too late for Russia to flee. Vietnam hurtled away, as suddenly, a beam of raw energy came pelting from the jungle below, colliding directly into the silver dragon. Russia let out a scream of pain as he was enveloped in the light, floundering in the air as his wings began to tear into ribbons.

Vietnam screamed at the attacking dragon, _AMERICA STOP! YOU WILL KILL HIM!_

America snapped his jaws shut, more from surprise rather than the command. He observed Russia falter to the ground, colliding into a damaged heap below. The youngest dragon had never seen up front what his powers could do to another dragon. There were open sores on the silver dragon’s body, exposing Russia’s insides to the humid damp, blisters on top of blisters. His wings were shreds- he would not fly anytime soon…if he could ever fly again.

Vietnam was making a pitiful noise, as she landed next to the largest male, nuzzling his neck as to try to get him to rise. Russia did not respond, only letting out a gasp of pain.

 _You are monstrous!_ Vietnam shrieked in America’s mind. _I’ll never forget! I’ll never forgive you for this!_

 _I hope you won’t,_ America sneered. _Because if you think of insulting me again, you’ll be the next one._ As in emphasis, the red dragon opened his mouth, showing her the golden light that lay waiting.

 _Let your friends in Hanoi and Moscow know._ America growled. _I am coming for them. I am coming for them all._

1989

America was poised above the Lincoln Memorial, watching as another protestor lobbed a flaming bottle at a riot policeman. In turn, the policeman repelled it with his shield, letting it bounce to the ground, and then responded with pepper spray. The crowd began to yell in response, and Alfred boredly watched as the uniformed police began to push back against the assembled mob, their shouts drowning out their cries of pain. He wasn’t supposed to be out these days. The President had ordered, _A dragon’s not what the people need right now! Especially not after what you did in Vietnam!_

 _I won the fucking war_ , America had scorned, _without me_ , _you’d have lost!_

It was all so unfair. First his former allies had turned against him, leveling sanction after sanction after he had the balls to put Russia in his goddamn place. Not one of them had bothered to do what had to be done to ensure world peace. Since when did everybody care about what happened to Russia? A worldwide outpouring of support had come to Moscow after his collapse under Alfred’s firepower. It riled America’s fury, and in turn, he had shut himself off from the world.

But it got even worse! In the years that had followed the end of the Vietnam war and the collapse of the Soviet Union, groups of his own humans had turned against him. They decried him as a monster, screaming on television, in protests, constantly showing effigies of a dragon being slain by a knight, with slogans such as, “DRAGONS ARE NOT FOR PEACE.”

 _The nerve of them!_ So America had stewed in anger, and become more and more vicious in his moods, biding his time, hoping this would quell and he could return to being his surly self. But it hadn’t. Not even northern brother Canada knew of the increasing internal violence that had been brewing in his own country. But thankfully, not all the humans were idiots. There were groups out there that supported him, and they held their own rallies, showing up to these protests with depictions of a dragon doing…well, America wouldn’t mention it in polite company, but his deranged mind thought it was funny.

And more important, he had the support of one group that really mattered. The ones who lives he had saved in Vietnam, in Korea, in the World Wars.

The military.

His pride and joy of his country. No one on Earth, not anymore, could match the firepower his soldiers possessed. And there were so many of them, men and women, strong, that would obey without question. Well, no one could match him- a puny human would be obliterated under his supremacy. But allied with these strong humans, America was unstoppable. And as the days grew shorter with the onset of winter, America’s brain began to work non-stop. He would go days without sleep, pacing the hallways of the White House, where he had made his lair these past 100 years. His brain was racing. Notions were forming. Too long humans had run things, and dragons made to serve. America had a simple, wonderful idea. He would reverse this. The other nations had too long suffered under their humans, and look what that had brought them. Endless war. Dragons would rule, and humans would serve. The humans would adapt to this new world order. This could only work in everyone’s favor- because Alfred was a nation of peace! Well, peace on his terms. He wouldn’t lie to himself. He could lie to everyone else.

So he began to send out letters. Not to everyone, and especially not his former Allies. Fuck them. He wanted to get a secondary draconic view. He was sensing out who might be in support of a world where dragons ruled. Most didn’t response, some sent clear reprimands, but a select few did give their backing to the idea. The latest indication of support came from his former colony, Philippines. Dear Philippines. America had always liked her, sensible dragon that she was. Cute with a fiery temper to boot. She saw things his way.

That might save her.

But then, America was disturbed from his thoughts when a human at the protest below caught sight of him, and screamed up, so that America’s sharp hearing could hear, “FUCK YOU, YOU DRAGON BASTARD!”

America bared his teeth in response, thinking that a couple of centuries ago, it would have not seemed unusual for him to swoop down and devour this human where he stood. How dare he insult his nation this way. This lack of respect for his superior species!?

“YOU’LL PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID!” yelled another. The policemen were starting to fall back, as more and more humans began to throw insults America’s way.

“MONSTER!”

“MURDERER!”

“KILLER OF CHILDREN!”

“SHUT UP!” America screamed down at them, grabbing at his glasses, and ripping them away from his face. In that moment of frenzy, he lobbed them down at the crowd, no longer wanting these sad reminders of his former humanity. He glared down at them with his newly exposed eyes.

“He’s a demon!” yelled a woman, pointing at his yellow eyes. America’s face began to morph into his true form, as the crowd began to cry in fear, panic setting in as he grew larger, and larger. America was too consumed with their fear and anger, his own fear and anger, and the all-consuming thought that this nonsense had gone for long enough. His police couldn’t control these dissenters. He would do their job for them. He had used violence with success in Vietnam. How would it differ here?

The Lincoln memorial began to crack ominously with his weight, and the scarlet dragon leapt into the sky, bellowing as the protestors began to run. The police, unhelpfully, began lobbying tear gas into the crowd, sending people falling into the ground. Screams of pain echoed as men and women fell over each other trying to escape America. He soared above them, their panic driving his hunting instincts wild.

_I cannot rid the taste of flesh…._

He dove low to the ground, and snapped his jaws. Fortunately, no one met their end between his pointed teeth, but he continued barreling over them. No matter these insects. After a few more scattering swoops, his mind was pounding with a new hunger. The dragon made his way to the nation’s seat of power. He would dine on something far greater than a mere dissenter.

Within minutes of his swift wingbeats, America landed on the grounds of the White House. Quickly he was again in human guise, striding purposefully as the Secret Service quietly observed from their assembled positions near the doors of the West Wing. Ah. News of his escapade hadn’t reached their ears yet. This would make things easier. Easier for his rapidly executed plan to come to life.

“I must speak with the President. Immediately. Following this, I must be placed in contact with the Pentagon.” Alfred said, the voice of command in his tone.

“The President isn’t seeing anyone, America,” one the assembled guards spoke, crossing his arms. “There’s been reports of violence near the Lincoln Memorial. He’s on the phone with the Chief of Police. You’ll need to wait.“

“It’s a good thing I place priority on human lives. More than you do apparently, “ America sneered, “I have intelligence on the disturbance at the Lincoln Memorial. I was there. I must speak with him. Alone.”

“You were there?” a woman interjected, “You’re not supposed to be out.”

“A mistake,” America said placatingly, “Let me in. I want to help fix things.” He gave them the fakest smile he knew. Tense moments passed, but then, he saw the group relax. And then, they stepped away, as two secret service waved him by the outer doors. Surprisingly, he was ushered into the hallway leading into the West Wing. Somehow his faked sincerity had worked. They were far too trusting in their nation. He supposed in that regard that it was good for what was to come. Better for them to put their faith in him now. Lest they have….future altercations.

“What happened to your glasses?” mumbled a young Marine posted outside the door as the dragon approached the doors leading into the Oval Office .

“They fell off,” America lied, giving another fake smile. “Silly me.” The young man shook his head, but opened the door, and America strode in, as the heavy wood made an audible “CLUNK” as it shut behind him.

The President was half-turned away from him, a cigarette that he had (assured) the American people he had quit the habit of in his right hand, his left hand slamming down the phone that had been cradled to his ear. His brown eyes locked onto America’s yellow. “YOU.” He snarled.

America gave him an unpleasant smile. “Me.” He responded.

“I just heard about that little fucking stunt you pulled. Would you like to know how many injuries there were because a fucking DRAGON swooped down on innocent civilians? How am I supposed to assure people our nation is stable when you are using war tactics on American soil!?”

“You are doing a piss poor job.” America said, his smile not leaving his face. “You’re fired, sir.”

The President blinked, but then, began to laugh. “Oh you’re a riot. My predecessor was right… America, you’re evil. And… I think you’ve always been that way. Ever since the beginning. Somehow it’s escaped everyone’s notice.”

“Mm.” America commented. “You wound me.”

“I wish,” the President sighed, rubbing his temples. He wasn’t aware that the young dragon was silently stalking up to his desk. “Just go, Alfred. You’ve done enough damage for today. I’d try locking you up, but there are no chains to hold you. Just go in the fucking forest and stay the hell out of DC. That’s all I ask.”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere, Mr. President. You didn’t hear me. You’re _fired_.”

“You don’t have that kind of power, America. You can’t fire me.” The President blinked his eyes as America loomed over him, a grin on his face. The Commander in Chief began to feel sweat bead on his brow. “Only the people decide who stays and leaves power. That’s..that’s democracy-“

“Mm. You think I’m relieving you of power? Nah. I’m _firing_ you. Literally.” America’s voice began to trill in excitement, his yellow eyes gleaming. “And then, I think I’ll eat you. I haven’t eaten human flesh in years. And truth be told… I’ve always liked the taste.”

The President stared, his face going pale as the meaning of America’s words dawned on him. He slapped his hand on the phone to call security. But it was seconds too late. America’s face morphed into a draconic visage, and a jet of flame engulfed the seat of the President. Shrieks of pain began echoing in the room, as the two outside posted Marines burst in. They stared as their President flailed, the former leader rolling on the ground of the Oval office. And yet, neither of them moved. Soon the screams subsided. America turned to face them, a look of malevolence on his now human face.

“Did you phone the Pentagon?”


	9. Battle with the Forces of Evil

1989  
  
 _How many horrible hallways were there_? England was distressed at the sheer distance of this hospital building as he met gasps of dismay at his cargo, the body in his arms twitching in subdued pain _. I don’t have bloody time for this!_ When finally he reached the wing of the Emergency room of the Canadian hospital, he rushed in with Matthew, ordering with efficiency to the human doctors poised, awaiting his arrival: “He will require a transfusion of blood… mine will suffice.”

The human doctors obeyed, quickly, as the emaciated Nation gave a cough of blood, while England stared in despair as his taller body was laid down into a hospital bed. Large slashes from claws had ravaged his torso, and his blood was soaking into the blankets. His former colony was suffering from incredible blows. England feared he might not survive. To top it off, the boy was missing an eye. To do this required a level of viciousness that England was horrified to think had been committed by another nation. A human entered the room, bowing towards England. “My Nation,” he said in a clipped, London accent, “There is a call request on the other line for you.”

“Delay it,” England said, running a shaking hand through Canada’s hair. Dear Canada. His loyal son. “I am busy.”

“It is about America.”

Another reason to ignore it. “It can wait.”

“Sir…it concerns the invasion of Canada and Turkey.”

 _Turkey as well?_ England thought, wondering then if a similar fate had befallen the reclusive nation. He sighed, curiosity getting the better of him. “Give me identity of the caller.”

“Germany.”

 _Of course._ England held out his hand, pointed nails tilted upwards as the device was placed into his palm. He took it back, holding it up to his black fin ear. “This had better be important,” he hissed, “I have Canada dying in my arms.”

“Turn on the television,” came the response. “Quickly.”

“Do not waste my time!” England raged, “Tell me or I’ll-“

“Turn. It. On.” Germany said coldly. Then the call was ended.

England had half a mind to disobey Germany’s order, but as much as it irritated him, he knew the stoic nation would not bother him unless it was urgent. The dragon looked over to a nurse nearby the mounted device, noting a Maple leaf pin placed to the right of her heart. “Please, turn the telly on.”

She gave a polite nod, grabbing a remote, and flipped the television on. “Which station, dear?” She needn’t have asked, for as soon as she began to alternate channels, it was apparent whatever was broadcasting was on all of them. What appeared was a countdown of numbers, a relic of the 40’s.

 _5…4…3…2…1_ the tv displayed.

And then, there was a desk. Well, England knew that desk. It was the desk of the President of the United States, and it was split in half.

The room was dim, lit by candles. On the walls, the pictures of presidents and dignitaries past had been removed. Now hung weapons of all assortments and eras, rifles from the 1700’s, maces from medieval times, halberds, spears, machine guns, axes, the lot. It suggested a room of war and malice.

 _What on Earth?_ thought England in disbelief.

There was a chair behind the desk, and it had claw marks in its back. The chair was faced to the window that would have illuminated the Oval Office, but upon observation, the windows were clouded and sullied by red splatters which England understood to be blood.

The chair turned around, slowly, to reveal the host of this broadcast of the damned.

It was America. The nation sat comfortably in the destroyed chair, his red horns rising above his tousled hair, giving him additional height. Dressed in a black military uniform with an assortment of pins and medals, he looked the part of a modern-day warlord. His spectacles were gone, giving clear view of his eyes. His yellow gaze shone in the room’s dim lighting, almost glowing….and reminiscent of a demon.

“Greetings and I hope this transmission finds you well…well, maybe not all of you,” America hummed, tapping his pointed fingernails together. England cast a look to Canada, thankfully, still unconscious. The northern nation let out a pained breath, and England took his hand in comfort, eyes returning to the screen.

 _You did this,_ he stared at the television, _you did this to your own brother._

“Sadly,” America said, as if it was not sad to him at all, “I find that you nations really haven’t run yourselves too well over the centuries. Wars, infighting, Communism… it certainly is _quite_ depressing. You all could use some more guidance on how to better manage things.”

The young dragon examined a fingernail, rubbing it against his thumb. “But I’ll admit error before I judge you. We tried self-governing measures in our own country. It didn’t work! Nobody wants it. Instead, we have a better version, a newer version, with a motto to fit, if you will… peace, through superior firepower! And who better to provide fire than a dragon?”

America flexed his shoulders, revealing 18th century styled epaulets, red, vicious red in color, that were affixed to his shoulders. “And we as a country have gone through some recent… _interesting_ shake ups.” America rose from his chair, spreading his arms as if showing off a new home purchase, “I mean, look at this room! Like it? I plan to make the whole world this way.”

 _You have gone mad_ , England thought, _this is absolute madness._

“Now I know what you’re thinking, what kind of government can I expect? Democracy? Hm. Maybe not the best idea. We find it doesn’t work. But we’ve got a new way of running things, and honestly, we’ve gotten it right this time. And its high time you all submit, too. Just ask our neighbors to the north!”

“You…you…”England snarled at the television, his temper getting the better of him, “You monster!”

“We’re so excited to share our new world order with all of you out there. I think you’ll appreciate how it works. And for those who perhaps find themselves in disagreement, well….” America returned to his seat, lounged backwards, and gave a smile that showed his white, fanged teeth.

“…Feel free to pray to your God. But, spoilers! I won’t be listening.”

The transmission ended, and now, the television displayed a new insignia. Black lines and bold red in color, it showed what was clearly America in his dragon form, rising above the earth. Tellingly, the dragon’s mouth was pointed downward, flaming at the globe, letting all to see what his end game was.

A world subservient to him.

_The future_

  
England climbed out of the vehicle, and landed on his feet, observing the ruin of the city ahead. The man’s clothing, outdated in this futuristic age, was loose, and breathable in the cold Virginia air underneath the plated armor he wore. He went to the back of the truck, pulling out his equipment, then slamming the hatch shut. Slapping the vehicle’s side with his right hand, it turned, and drove the direction towards the sea, where the Allies had made their landing.

His heart was heavy with the burden of what he knew he must do. He took the heavy metal shield, and examined it, fully, for the first time. The cross of St. George was painted on in a bright red, reminding him of its purpose. He tied it across his back, his pointed nails scrabbling against the front. The sword he affixed to his waist, and then began the journey that weighed on his soul.

He walked for many miles across the destroyed earth, upturned cars and flamed out buildings making for hellish scenery. No humans were present, but this was unsurprising. They had been dead for months, bathed in the flames of Armageddon. It was him, the dragon England in human form, pacing alone along an empty highway. Hours passed in silence, but then, he finally could see ahead the layout of what was once Washington D.C., black smoke rising above the wasted city. The green-eyed man made his way past Arlington, until he was on the bridge leading into the metropolis.

There, the dragon America was waiting for him. He stood at the end of the bridge that divided Virginia and D.C. Yellow eyes stared unrepentantly back into green, the slitted pupils observing him coldly. The younger nation was dressed in all black, appearance more with the times they lived in, unlike the anciently dressed England. He still wasn’t wearing his glasses, which gave England the painful reminder of the youth he had raised centuries ago.

“Alfred,” he called, desperation tinging his voice. “It is over. Yield.”

“That’s Imperial Forces of America to you, England.” Now the man was giving him a sick smile. “I don’t go by that name anymore.”

“It is your true name, “ England said hastily, putting together his hands, pointed fingernails pointed skywards as if in prayer, “You’ve only forgotten it.” America chose to ignore that comment, taking in England’s appearance. “Dressed as a knight, there’s gotta be some irony in this, considering what you are,” he scoffed, “And you brought a sword? How outdated can you be?”

England squeezed his eyes shut at the insult. America was not moved… and leaving him no choice. He went to his side, and with his hand, drew forth the sword for the other’s inspection. America’s eyebrow raised as he eyed the golden hilt, and observed that the blade was inscribed with small letters.

The shorter nation broke the silence. “This is Excalibur.”

“ _Really_.” America deadpanned, skepticism in his voice. “Plan on taking up dragon slaying, Ar-thur?” he dragged his name in vehemence.

“I will do what I must.” England replied, swinging his shield forward, until he was in a defensive position, green eyes staring over the shield, sword held at his side. America stood, still so young and beautiful. And despite it all, England still loved him. He decided to plead, once more. “You can end this, Alfred. Surrender to me. Let us go back to the way things were…”

“We can _never_ go back to the way things were,” America sneered. “Remember your stories? There was never a happy ending. And this is no exception.” His mouth opened, revealing that all his teeth had become pointed, rather than just his fangs. He snapped his jaws like a crocodile, and looked back down at England. America then rapidly increased in size, his wings unfolding as he rose from man to monster. The bridge groaned ominously under the heavy weight of the beast, and his long, forked tongue flicked the air, taunting his opponent. _Choose to fight as a human, you shall die as a human!_ America’s voice sneered in his mind. His long neck reached forward, and his head dropped down, giving a draconic equivalent of a smirk.

Giving a yell, the horned man charged, his shield a barrier.

America dispensed with the pleasantries. He huffed, and the sound akin to a flamethrower echoed from his mouth as a stream of fire shot forward, colliding into England’s shield. The smaller man was thrown back, but the shield held against the flames. The heat was so intense: no mere mortal would have survived such a firestorm.

England had fallen to the ground, but America took no pity. The dragon breathed fire again, which had the man leap away from the yellow flames. England stumbled to his feet, where again, the red dragon flamed at him. He was pushed back by the fire, but held firm to his shield, only being knocked several steps back. America’s head came forward, and he snapped his jaws down, the sound ringing in the Arthur’s ears.

England was ready. When America’s head lowered to his level, he slammed the sword across the top of America’s snout. With an angry growl, the red dragon snapped at him again and again in frustration, as England dodged.

Sensing America’s waning patience, England hastened to the side of the bridge. This was a smart move, as the red beast reared back, and opened his mouth, red-gold basking in the back of his throat. With another roar of fire, America flamed the entirety of the bridge, old cars, debris, and other foul things catching aflame. England’s back was to the bridge, in the closest position he could manage without being exposed to the heat. For not the first time that day, he wondered if perhaps this battle truly was necessary in human form. _I could fly, fight him tooth and claw…_ but he knew it had to be fought this way. There was only one weakness that America had. It had been Canada, his brother, who had told England where it was.

“I gave it to him,” the quiet nation responded when England asked how he knew. “For Toronto. For Quebec. For my people.” It was too small an area for a dragon’s claws to reach, and impervious to flame. But something as simple as a sword might accomplish what thousands of humans had died trying to do.

End this nightmare.

America stalked forward, snapping his jaws, jogging Arthur from his thoughts. The man swung the sword wildly, as the red dragon pinned him against the bridge. With a sudden pull of America’s throat, did England’s shield once again receive the full brunt of dragon fire. But this time the force was too great. The shield flew from England’s arms, over the bridge, and into the waters below.

 _HA!_ The red dragon’s voice taunted his mind, his jaws pulling into a toothed, reptilian smirk.

And in that moment, he saw the place where Canada spoke of. A small division of flesh on America’s chest, over where his heart would be. A wound that had not properly healed, leaving soft, vulnerable flesh between hardened scales. _Heavenly Father…_ Arthur prayed.

The dragon pulled his neck back and lifted his forepaws, preparing to ram England into the bridge with his jaws. Arthur drew back his arm, and with a strength he didn’t know he had, launched the ancient blade towards the scar.

It flew true, and the blade sunk ,all the way to the hilt, into America’s breast. The dragon let out a pained scream, and choked, falling backwards onto the bridge. The collision was too great, and his weight cracked the old bridge in two. America thrashed in agony, falling into the waters below. England held onto the side of the bridge, which shuddered as it slid into the water after America’s fall. Attempting to hold on with his pointed nails, he realized it was futile. He fell in after America, transforming as he hit the water.

The black dragon felt stones ricochet against his hide, but they would not affect a great beast as himself. He tucked his wings into his body, to avoid being pinned by the remaining rocks. Freezing in place, he waited until the rest of the bridge slumped into the water. Once the violence of falling rocks had subsided did he resume his task. Digging his nose into the water, he sought America. He expected the large form of a dragon, but after a few minutes of his mouth sifting through the muddy waters did he find instead Alfred’s human body. He gently took it into his jaws, and slowly climbed out of the river, until they were both back on soil. The black dragon dropped the smaller body onto the ground, and re-shifted into human form, until he stood above the fallen America.

America’s face was slack and white. The sword was still embedded in his breast, the gleam of the blade hidden under the red blood oozing out from where it had entered him. His red horns tilted his head back, almost if he was sleeping. England kneeled alongside his former colony, cautiously, anticipating the boy to rise, and begin the fight once more.

Then, he noticed that Alfred’s chest was not rising or falling.

England’s hand reached to America’s shoulder, giving a shake. No response. His voice began to quiver with emotion, “It is over, America. Wake up.”

America did not respond. England increased the pressure of his hand, digging his pointed nails into his shoulder. “Rise.”

Nothing.

At his side, underneath his knightly garb, a radio buzzed, indicating someone was trying to call him. Frustrated, England quickly grasped for it, clicking the ancient receiver to life. A voice, in breathless panic, all but yelled in his finned ears:

“-They’ve surrendered to us, England, the Imperial Forces have dissolved……”

_No… no no no no._

“NO!” England screamed, slamming his fists into the earth, grabbing the corpse by its shoulders, and began shaking it, “You cannot, you will not, I forbid it, you wretch, you belong to me!” The man collapsed to his knees, and began to weep, holding the body to his chest. “I have lost you…I have lost you. Oh God, it is all over.”

Arthur shifted into human form as he landed in the camp, his arms still holding the fallen body of America. The Allied nations were in a half-circle, having anticipated his return. There was no cheering, no rejoicing, no celebration. Blank stares of slitted eyes, and bowed heads. Arthur thought he heard weeping, but he was too emotionally worn to look to find out who it was.

Germany and Italy, towards the center, stepped aside as Russia quietly walked out from the assembled group, until he had reached Arthur and Alfred. His amethyst eyes rested on America’s face. England could only wonder what passed through his mind, seeing his fallen enemy. “I am sorry,” England said to him, unsure of what else to say.

Ivan shook his head, and leaned over Alfred’s face. He gently took the younger dragon’s chin with his pointed fingernails, staring at the closed eyes and lips, in contemplation. Suddenly, the tall man surged down to give Alfred a fierce kiss. Arthur stood stock still in shock, still holding the body. Of all the things he had expected the man to do, that was not one of them. Seconds passed, and the taller dragon rose up. Disappointment crossed his normally cool features.

“In the stories, true love’s kiss breaks the curse.” he said softly.

Arthur scowled. “You don’t think I tried that?”

“A pity.” Russia replied. He turned his back on them both, walked through the assembled nations, and disappeared behind a tent several meters away. Some of the Baltic nations cast their heads to watch their former leader’s departure. Within moments, the tent was dwarfed by the size of the huge silver dragon that had risen from behind it. The beast stood up on its back legs, opening its wings, and let out a roar, which echoed full of grief. It leapt into the air, wings beating madly, flying up the coast, until the great dragon disappeared from sight.

“Canada, come with me.” England said, tiredly. He supposed they expected a speech from him, but instead….

“The rest of you lot, go home.” With that, he went to the closest tent, the solemn twin following behind his tired steps. As he laid Alfred’s body down on a cot, he heard the tell-tale sound of wings, suggesting a mass exodus of dragons. He felt relief at this. He did not want their pity, nor did he want to give them any comfort. He was drained of his emotions, and in that moment, wished dearly that he was home and not in this ill-begotten country.

And yet… so much of his heart had been left here. In Alfred. In Matthew.

Canada stood alongside him, his purple slitted eye looking towards England. His eye strap covered his other missing eye, which had been raked out by America. “Your brother took from you. I intend he gives back.” Arthur said, emotionlessly. “I pray… if there is an afterlife, he will be at peace with what I am to do.”

Matthew sucked in a breath in anticipation, “Can this be done?”

“I am going to try.”

England raised a hand, and his fingers became claws. With the skill of a surgeon, he used his pointed claws to remove America’s left eye. The now blue eye rolled at him, the slitted pupil staring at nothing. England gestured at Canada, who had prudently prepared a small water dish, to which they dipped the eye in. This was not hygienic by any means, but they were dragons. And Arthur was not sure this was to work.

He turned to Matthew, holding the eye. “Remove the strap,” he commanded. Canada gently pulled it away, to reveal the hole that once held his lavender eye. England reformed his claws into hands, and pushed the blue eye in. Matthew hissed, and slapped his hand over it, wincing in pain.

“Give it a moment,” England said, waiting patiently. Canada’s shoulders shook for a moment. But then, he removed his hand, and rose, to meet Arthur’s expectant gaze. Two eyes stared at him, one lavender, and one blue. The younger dragon blinked; his body having accepted his new eye.

“What remains of North America is yours, Matthew. This clearly will show the people you represent them as their nation. You shall be the beacon across the sea, liberty for all to see.” Canada bowed his head, his red horns reminding Arthur painfully of Alfred.

“I cannot replace America.”

“Nor should you. Make your world a better one. I am done here. My love for this country’s shores has died in my arms.” Canada looked at him in sympathy, then cast his head over to the cot where America lay motionless. “What about…. where should I bury him?”

“I will take him with me,” said England, without hesitation.

“Would it not be better if he remained here?”

England privately thought that yes, it would be best to lay America to rest in his homeland, but he was petty, and he wanted this. “No. It would create a memorial which could inspire others. It would be best if I placed him somewhere only I knew.”

Arthur could tell Canada wanted to argue this, but instead moved he over to Alfred’s body. Matthew placed a hand on his brother’s forehead. Minutes passed in silence. But then, he said two words softly to the fallen nation, so quiet that Arthur could hardly hear:

“You’re _free_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...Feel free to pray to your God." - direct quote from TeamFourStar
> 
> Chapter Title and Fight: Sleeping Beauty, American Animation, 1959


	10. Ascent

England ascended the weathered stone steps, the brisk wind chilling his body. The body in his arms was light, wrapped in a simple shroud from a time well before the youth was even an idea. It was a long climb, but it gave the ancient nation time to think. The sword hugged his side as he ascended, and he almost thought it was humming.

Finally, the stairs ended, and he was greeted by a scene of apple trees, an orchard ancient and strong. He would not partake of the fruit here, lest the magic of his place take hold of him. England continued on, the wind slowing as the weather became calmer, and more peaceful. Within an hour he had reached his destination, which was bright, sunny, and welcoming. A tomb loomed closer and closer, and he strode forward, his steps lighter. Finally, he reached the large stone, which was marked with the words:

“Here lies entombed the renowned King Arthur in the Island of Avalon.”

England gently settled the shrouded body next to him, and knelt before the tomb in respect.

“My dearest Arthur,” he said to the tomb, “I bring to you, Morgana.” Somewhere in the back of his mind he could almost hear Alfred complain, petulantly, that no, he was not the wild sorceress in the story, and that he would rather be a knight. But Morgana had been strong-willed, passionate, and helped bring about the ending of Camelot.

Much as America had done.

Arthur strode away from the ancient grave, giving a healthy distance, lest he disturb something. He found a level ground. With a fold out shovel, a relic of the second World War, he began to dig into the earth. Several hours passed, but he did not tire.

When the grave was deep enough to meet England’s approval, he returned to the shroud. With a heft, he walked on steady feet over to the pit. He knelt, hand hesitating over the cloth, debating whether to reveal his face one more time. But he decided against it. The mortal remains of America wouldn’t be him. The spirit had gone.

He let the shrouded body naturally slide into the earth, and when that was done, wiped his brow. He retrieved the shovel. Perhaps it would be faster moving dirt in dragon form, but for this, he felt it was more appropriate in human guise.

Filling the grave was much faster than creating it. Sooner than England expected, the newest grave on Avalon was now aligned towards King Arthur’s. England supposed he ought to leave a tombstone for America, and looked for an appropriate stone. He was fortunate, or fate had been kind, for a stone was mere paces away. Arthur wasn’t sure how he had missed seeing it upon arrival.

The dragon laid the stone across America’s grave, and then paused, at a loss of what to inscribe. He shifted his hips, his knee tapping against the sword affixed to his belt. Then, he knew. Withdrawing the sword, he inspected the jeweled hilt, and cast a look over to the ancient king’s grave.

“I hope you aren’t terribly offended,” he remarked. Without a moment’s hesitation, he drove the sword into the stone. It did not shatter, instead, sinking into it like butter. Most of the sword remained embedded in the rock. But a small portion of the silver blade remained out, showing some of the inscription. The hilt glinted in the sun. A breeze tousled his hair, he bowed his head, and said, “Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment…”

He gave a short bow, unable to finish.

“Be at peace.”

And then Arthur flew away from the hidden island, vowing that when his day would come, he too would lie beside Alfred, and join him in that heavenly court.

_England sat upon on throne. There was a crown on his head, and he felt its weight more than ever. He was dressed in splendid robes of a bygone time, fitting in nicely with the nearby hanging tapestries depicting scenes of glorious battles and festive hunts. His crown was dominating his thoughts, however. Heavy it was with the significance of the power he now had to wield in this court of men and dragons, where hundreds of eyes, reptilian and not, regarded him. The court hummed with commotion. Feeling overwhelmed with scrutiny, he looked over to his Queen, who sat inspecting his nails, as if they were more interesting than his royal husband. Somehow, he was and wasn’t expecting seeing the occupant in the royal throne beside him._

_“Really?” he deadpanned, seeing his “wife” in his marvelous dress, blues, golds, and pinks harmoniously cutting his trim figure. Despite the garb clearly made for a female, it fit him perfectly. Of course it did._

_“Why of course, King Arthur,” trilled the blonde French dragon, as he shook his head, allowing the golden tresses to fall around his bearded face. “Who else would be as beautiful as moi to be the famous Guinevere? I thought you knew already it wasn’t America.”_

_“I didn’t think it was you either, frog.”_

_“Who else would put up with you?” France sniffed, lifting an eyebrow. England scowled and raised his hand into a fist, shaking it at his former rival. Before the married couple could really start bickering, a movement from his left caught his attention. Arthur cast his green gaze over to Russia, who was heavily clad in armor, and guarding the door that led to the outside of the royal chambers. The purple eyes regarded him coolly, then moved to lock with France, and the two shared what could only be described as a moment. England felt the semblance of a frown, recalling that in this story, he was to be betrayed by the two of them. He shouldn’t care…should he?_

_However, this wasn’t to hold interest for long, as suddenly the three turned their heads to the large “THUMP” of the entrance doors being pounded upon, as if a battering ram was hitting from outside. Russia drew forth a glorious sword, it shining as brilliantly as his armor. “What foul knave disturbs the court of the King?” he blustered, his voice bellowing in the now silent room, as the gathered dragons and humans stared at the source of the loud noise. The door’s knocks increased, and France flinched in his throne, “Mon dieu, what a noise!” he complained. “Send them away, Lancelot!”_

_England was unafraid. “If they are that bloody persistent, let them in.” he commanded, eyeing Excalibur resting at his hip. Russia gave him a withering look, but did as his King commanded, and with a ferocious tug of the bolted door, he opened it to the intruder._

_From the dim evening air stalked forth a figure in brown and golds, clothing a harmony between a dress and a robe, tied with a rope at the hip. Red imperious horns rose up from blonde hair, sticking out from the assembled crowd, with yellow, unrepentant eyes staring back from the tanned face. This character was holding a staff, which was used to click and clack onto the cobblestones below as their steps were carried forward to the two seated royals. Aside this magnificently garbed intruder was a taller man, with brown hair tied back, clearly human, unlike the horned figure beside him. Dressed as a page, the man was unremarkable, but had a stare of a hundred years. Both of them were very familiar to Arthur._

_Russia announced them, “The Lady Morgana and…”_

_America cut in, rudely, “Queen Morgana. And her son, Mordred. Rightful heir of the King.” France let off a challenging hiss, and England slapped his hand down on the other dragon’s arm, and squeezed in silent threat. Samuel Laurens just gave off a sigh, looking down to his “mother”. “Is this all entirely necessary?” he muttered to America, who ignored him._

_France growled, “You wretch, you are no Queen here.” America’s yellow eyes bore into his own, fierce and wild. “I am sister to Arthur, King. That would make me Queen.” England sighed, feeling the need to come to his “wife’s” defense, no matter his personal feelings. “Only half my sister, Morgana. Guinevere is Queen here.”_

_“Well, well…” America’s yellow hawk-gaze locked on England, “Seems you’ve got some nerve. You won’t recognize us? I’ll show you the meaning of recognition.“_

_“Once again,” England said crossly, “You are putting words in my mouth. Perhaps if you had listened before we’d not be here. I did not say you would not be Queen. Not here in Camelot. That extension does not include outside the court.” He rose to his feet, feeling bitterness, “ Your passion for power will be your undoing, mark me.”_

_“I thought it was my humanity?” America replied, lifting an eyebrow imperiously._

_“We both were proven how inhuman you really are,” Arthur commented, “I failed to see it. Perhaps I did not want to.”_

_“Since I was a child,” America agreed, “Perhaps, if you had seen it then, things would have been different.”_

_England was not about to get into an argument of semantics with America, not with the amount of heartbreak he had endured from the other nation. Instead he held up the sword Excalibur, showing it to the observing court, “I am naming you Queen of Avalon. You shall rule in my stead, wisely and justly, over human and fair folk.”_

_“That is not what I wish-“ America cut in hotly._

_“-It is what you are given,” England proclaimed, continuing on as if he hadn’t heard, “For one day I shall perish.” Arthur flicked his gaze over to Lancelot and Guinevere, almost accusingly, “And I want someone to protect my body and blade, in the day that I am most needed to return. I can think of no one better to guard this country’s most valuable possession. A true **dragon**.”_

_America blinked, whereas Mordred laid a hand on his arm, “This is a great honor,” the taller human said softly. America stared back at him; his teeth slightly exposed beneath pale lips to show the tipped fangs. Then he regarded Arthur. “I rule in your stead?” he said, suspicious._

_“On Avalon.” Arthur said firmly. “To act as guardian from the day I perish.” America gave him a judging look. The boy then turned to face the court, raising his staff as if in challenge to this claim. No one opposed. The taller dragon then cast his yellow gaze to Lancelot, purple meeting yellow. The two regarded each other, and England couldn’t help but notice Russia’s steely gaze softened slightly at America’s fierce own. Ah. Arthur then did recall in the story how Morgana had bewitched the just Knight into loving her. America really was never satisfied._

_The boy then turned to face Arthur, and giving a curt nod to Mordred who stood stoically by, rose to the steps, the staff clacking onto the stone stairs as he approached the King, shoulders locked back with authority. He stepped forward, whereas France sat rigidly nearby, giving him a judging look, until America was standing in front of England. The two nations, so intertwined, regarded each other then. Arthur wondered if the past several hundred years, their bond, their fall, and everything in between ran through the boy’s mind as it did his own. So much had happened, and yet, so much was still the same. America stared at him, a small, wild smile on his face to answer the King’s proclamation:_

_“I will mangle your corpse.“_

_Arthur gave him a wry smile, still his heart full of love for this beast._

_“Oh America,” England sighed, “Only you could say such a thing.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, from one brief shining moment... That was known as, Camelot."  
> -From the musical, Camelot, (also associated commonly with President John F. Kennedy)


End file.
